Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse, стр. 27
XXIV
Mortimer exited the room quickly. He’d already packed. He even had his shoes on. All he had to do was pull up his pants and buckle his belt. He ran out of the room with the double-barreled shotgun in one hand and the Nike tote bag in the other. Somewhere behind him, Sheila had jumped up and grabbed her robe. Mortimer didn’t look back.
I accept your apology, little girl. Stay safe if you can.
He heard more gunfire and saw flashes in the window as he ran through the bank lobby. He went across to Joey’s, where he saw men upending tables, facing the front door, rifles and pistols ready. He saw Bobby and Floyd crouched behind one of the tables, Bobby with his single-barreled shotgun and Floyd with a very-small-caliber revolver.
Mortimer knelt next to them. “What’s happening?”
“Red Stripes overran the barricades,” Bobby said. “A shitload of them. Just came out of nowhere.”
“I thought you’d be home guarding the chickens.”
Bobby snorted. “I should have been, but dumbass here needed to dip his wick. Dumb horny idiot.”
Floyd flicked his brother the bird. “It was worth it. That Sheila can fuck like a demon.”
Mortimer tried to pretend he hadn’t heard that. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m looking for a pal. Seen a guy with blond hair and a big mustache?”
Bobby shook his head. “Ask Shelby. He’s hiding behind the bar.”
Mortimer hoisted himself over the bar where the church altar had once been. He found Shelby and Bill passing a bottle of Freddy’s Bowel Explosion Bourbon between them.
“I’m selling this place,” Shelby said. “I mean, seriously, I’ve fucking had it.” He took a swig of bourbon.
“Don’t bogart the bottle.” Bill took it, drank.
Mortimer dropped between them. “I’d like to cancel the room for tonight, Shelby. Credit the difference to my account.”
“No refunds.”
Mortimer took the bottle from Bill. “You want to get out of here or not?”
Bill grabbed the bottle back. “How? They’re shooting out there.” He drank deep and fast, coughed, some of the bourbon splashing on his chin.
The front door burst open and somebody yelled to hold fire. The jagged racket of a gun battle came loud from the streets. Two men stumbled in, carrying a third between them. The man they carried bled from the belly. They kicked the door closed behind them.
“Fucking hell!” one of them said. It was the lanky militia officer Mortimer had seen earlier. “They’re swarming out there like flies on a turd. Get one of them tables up.”
A pair of men with deer rifles righted their table. The officer and his comrade dropped the wounded man on the table faceup. He groaned and clutched his belly, thick blood oozing red, pumping out like they’d struck oil. He was crying and moaning and asking for his momma.
“Is there a doctor?” the officer asked the room. “Somebody with medical experience?”
A flurry of gunshots and one of the front windows shattered, spraying glass. Everyone hit the deck. The door flew open, and two men rushed in. They were met immediately by a half-assed volley of rifle fire, but it was enough to put them down. More invaders crowded the door. Shots flying inside.
“Pick your targets,” the officer yelled. “Don’t waste ammo shooting wild.” He drew his pistol and fired at a face that appeared in the shot-out front window. The wounded man was still groaning on the table. Shots shattered bottles behind the bar, and Mortimer ducked down again, throwing his arms over his head as glass and booze showered him.
Shelby began to laugh uncontrollably. “I paid for that fucking booze!”
Mortimer didn’t want to stick his head back up to see what was happening. But he could hear. Shots and furniture scooting on the floor and men screaming and the gut-shot man on the table crying out for his mother.
Mortimer held the shotgun tight against his chest. Maybe he should be helping with the firefight. Or maybe he should have stayed in his room.
“Shelby, is there a back door to this place?”
“Through the kitchen. Opens to an alley. But the alley goes to the street and that’s where all the shit is happening.”
“At least we could make a run for it.” With the bullets flying, Bill seemed a lot more willing to make a break for it.
“Your call,” Shelby said. “Die in here or die in the alley.”
Somebody leapt over the bar and landed three feet from Mortimer. He swung the shotgun, only just stopped himself from pulling the trigger and turning Sheila’s face to hamburger.
She’d changed. Instead of a seductress, she now looked like a teen on her way to a high school campout. Jeans and a denim shirt and a black leather jacket. Reebok sneakers. A khaki Jansport backpack.
She looked at Mortimer, her face strangely calm and confident. “I’m getting out of here. You coming?”
“Let’s go.”
“Wait for me,” Bill said.
They crawled behind the bar, following Sheila.
She paused in front of Shelby. “I quit.”
“Me too.”
They crawled all the way to the end of the bar, the firefight still flaring in spurts out front. Sheila stood and dashed for a side door. Bill and Mortimer followed. Mortimer paused, looked back. A handful of men lay dead behind the overturned tables. A pile of dead Red Stripes choked the doorway. Others fired in through the broken window.
Mortimer went through the door, found himself on the other side with Bill and Sheila in some kind of vestibule. They followed Sheila through another door, down a hall and then into the kitchen.
Bill said, “We can’t go this way. Shelby says it just leads to an alley and the street.”
“I know a way,” Sheila said.
As they went past stoves and refrigerators, Sheila grabbed a string of uncooked linked sausages and hung them around her neck. They found the old crone sitting on a stool near the back door. The door was metal and barred. It shook with thuds, men on the other side trying to knock it down.
“Will you be okay, Edith?” Sheila asked.
The old woman patted the MAC- 10 in her lap. “I have a full clip. And anyway, it’ll take a bulldozer to knock down that door.”
“We’re leaving through the pantry. Can you close it behind us?”
The old woman nodded.
Sheila flung open the pantry door, motioned for Bill and Mortimer to follow. Inside, shelves were lined with various canned goods and foodstuffs. A canvas bag hung on a nail just inside the door. Sheila grabbed it, tossed it to Bill. “Fill it up.”
Bill didn’t hesitate, began scooping random items into the sack.
Sheila reached to the back of one of the middle shelves, knocking off cans. “Come on, come on. Where is it? Ah!”
An audible click, and the back of the pantry swung open. Stone stairs on the other side spiraled down. She lit a candle. “This way.”
They went down the stairs. The door thudded closed behind them, and the little candle was the only light. The sound of the outside world had been cut off. The stairs ended at the mouth of a tunnel, which was dank and tomblike.
They followed Sheila into the tunnel. She picked her way carefully, watching her steps in the dim candlelight. The ground was uneven, the ceiling low enough in places that Mortimer had to hunch over.
“They used to smuggle slaves through here during the Civil War.” Sheila’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Edith said the pastor had been an abolitionist and part of the Underground Railroad. When she was a schoolteacher, they brought kids on field trips here.”
They walked for a while, maybe twenty minutes, until they arrived at a wooden door made of heavy planks and iron hinges. Sheila grabbed an iron ring and pulled. “Help me.”
Mortimer grabbed the ring too, pulled, his muscles straining. Finally the door swung open. They stepped into fresh air and darkness. Mortimer blinked, letting his eyes adjust. They’d come out under an unused railroad bridge, a small creek flowing in front of them.