Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse, стр. 11
He glanced again at Bill, made his eyes focus. Bill had the waitress’s top down, one erect nipple in his mouth. The waitress’s hand reached below the table into Bill’s lap, pumped.
To hell with spiritual awakening, Mortimer thought. I want a hand job.
XII
In his dream, Mortimer smelled coffee.
His eyes flicked open. He rolled over, heaved, launched a stream of acidic puke over the side of the queen-size bed. He lay back, sank into the pillow. Where was he? He tried to focus. Gnomes with miniature sledgehammers were trying to pound his eyes out of their sockets from the inside. He felt like unholy shit. Perhaps if he puked again…
He rolled over. Puked again.
The smell of puke made him puke a third time.
Beyond the sour smell of vomit, Mortimer could have sworn he still smelled coffee. Wishful thinking. A nice dream.
Bill burst into his room, holding a ceramic mug. “Wake up, sunshine. Time to-Jesus H. Christ, what happened in here?” He went immediately to a window and opened it wide. The cold wash of air took some of the stench away, felt good on Mortimer’s slick face.
Mortimer summoned the energy to say, “Go away. I’m dying.”
“If you die, you’ll miss the train.” Bill shoved the coffee mug at him. “Drink this. You paid enough for it.”
Mortimer struggled, grunted, sat up in bed. “What are you talking about?”
“When you bought all that stuff last night. You got some coffee too. Three hundred bucks a pound.” Bill shook his head, laughed. “I guess there ain’t no more bean boats coming up from Colombia.”
Three hundred dollars a pound for coffee? Bill had said he’d bought some things. Mortimer had been so very drunk…had spent so much…had Bill said…? “What train?”
“It was your idea. When Mr. Coffey came back and said he knew where your wife-”
“Anne! You know where my wife is?”
“Hell, you really don’t remember, do you?”
“God damn it, Bill!”
“Mr. Coffey said he felt bad so he asked some questions and found out your wife went to Chattanooga, to the main Joey Armageddon’s there. She’s going to be head girl or something.”
“Christ.”
“So you said you were going to get her and bought a bunch of supplies, ammunition and food, and you booked us passage on the Muscle Express.”
“The muscle what?”
“The train.”
Mortimer looked around the room. He remembered a blur of women, half expected to see one in his bed. “Did I have any company last night?”
“Well, you could have,” Bill said. “When they all found out you were the richest guy in the place, you became right popular. But you drank so much. I don’t think you could’ve gotten Mr. Willie to work.”
Damn.
Bill lifted the mug again. “This is getting cold. You want it or not?”
“Hell yes.” Mortimer took the mug. “I paid for it.”
His sipped the coffee. Mortimer’s eyes slowly widened. Every molecule in his body came alive. His bones hummed with electricity, the caffeine flowing the pathways of his body, a latent memory in his veins moaning ecstasy, seeming to say, Oh, yes. This is good. This is right.
Bill looked alarmed. “You okay, man? What is it?”
Fat tears rolled down Mortimer’s cheeks. “Could you leave the room please, Bill? I’d like a moment alone with the coffee.”
Once upon a time it had been a whistle stop, an insignificant knot in the great tangle of the American railway. Now, like a thriving port in the endless deserts of the old west, the Spring City train station writhed with activity, a score of stout men loading crates of trade goods (including three hundred gallon-jugs of Freddy’s Stain Your Tongue Purple Merlot). The very few passengers who could afford the fare disembarked, looking sore-limbed and happy as hell to be off the train.
The only two people who could afford the fare south were Mortimer and Bill. They stood in the snow next to their gear, hands in pockets, stomping to keep their feet warm. Mortimer swayed in the biting wind, only the caffeine in his veins keeping him upright. His finger stump ached with the cold.
Silas Jones found them, puffing and red faced. He’d run all the way to the station. “I thought I might miss you before the train left, sir. Thank goodness I caught you.”
Mortimer belched, and it tasted like death. “What is it?”
Jones presented him with a sheet of paper marked up in pencil. A row of numbers swam before Mortimer’s eyes. He looked away. Reading the numbers made him nauseous. “Just give me the gist of it.”
“Your final bill,” Jones said, handing Mortimer a pen. “If you’ll just sign at the bottom, we’ll deduct it from your account.”
Mortimer took the pen, glimpsed the total at the bottom of the page as he signed. He gulped. Mortimer had spent over two thousand dollars. His newfound wealth would evaporate in a week if he kept spending at this pace. He mentally vowed not to let that happen.
Pete Coffey appeared at Mortimer’s elbow. “You look green.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Mortimer said.
“I hope you find her,” Coffey said. “Seriously.”
“You didn’t have to come see me off.”
“I didn’t. I’m mayor, remember? I always make sure the train goes out on time. I also want to make sure my boys get aboard.” Coffey indicated a dozen men climbing aboard the flatcars. All held rifles and looked ready to use them.
“Red Stripes down the line, maybe. Can’t take chances.”
Mortimer touched the Uzi hanging from its shoulder strap. “I hear you.”
“They’re bringing the handcar out now,” Coffey said. “So you’ll be pulling out soon.”
“Handcar?”
“Sure,” Coffey said. “How do you think we pull the train? It’s not like we got a big fat diesel engine. No fuel.”
Mortimer shook his head. “Whoa. Wait. You mean guys are going to hand-pump that thing and pull three flatcars and all that cargo? It’ll take a hundred years to get to Chattanooga.”
“Getting started is the hard part. Once they get into a rhythm, you’d be surprised. Here come the pumpers now.”
Now Mortimer saw why they called it the Muscle Express. The eight men designated to operate the specially modified handcar were brutes, hulking, shirtless men with rippling muscles. The smallest was just over six feet tall, three hundred and fifty pounds.
“Four rest while four pump,” Coffey explained. “Doc!”
“I’m here.” A frumpy man with disheveled gray hair waddled forward, clutching a black doctor’s bag dangling from a gnarled hand. He fished an inoculation gun out of the bag and zapped each muscleman in the arm.
“Speed boost,” Coffey said.
The musclemen flexed, their faces turning red, grunting and posing, a light sheen of sweat on their muscles. It looked like a really angry Chippendales show.
“They’ll be ready to go now. Better climb on,” Coffey said. “Once those guys get going, they don’t let up.”
Buffalo Bill had already tossed the gear onto the nearest flatcar. He jumped up and held out a hand for Mortimer. “Let’s get a move on, partner.”
Mortimer took the cowboy’s hand and let himself be heaved onto the flatcar. He broke out in a sweat from the minor exertion, the wind sending a chill to the marrow of his bones. He sat on the flatcar, looked back at Coffey, who stood waving. The train was inching forward, almost imperceptibly slow at first. The pumpers heaved and grunted and leaned into the hand pump, their muscles bulging, faces turning red.
Belatedly, Mortimer returned the wave, the Spring City train station shrinking behind them. The grunts and groans from the hand pumpers finding a rhythm, the meaty machine, a new-world locomotive narcotic-fueled and lubricated with sweat.