Tourists of the Apocalypse (37 page)

The chopper door is pulled shut as it floats away. Once the beating air and thumping ends, I sit up and wipe the tears off my cheeks. All I wind up doing is pushing blood around.
Is it Dickeys or Izzy’s?
I hear faint engine noises and turn to witness a half dozen cars rolling toward me down the expressway.

“
Road Pirates
,” I sigh, exasperated. “What a perfect way for this day to end.”

I roll over and use both hands to push myself to my feet. Gathering up the shotgun, I stagger back to the Vette. The first car, a VW Beatle with a desert camouflage paintjob, rolls to a stop behind Dickey’s car. I watch five other cars pull up and park diagonally in some sort of hipster cool line. They are all hand painted in some way, most incorporating skulls or gothic imagery, although one has bright yellow daisies painted on the doors.

Several young men wearing leather jackets and thick gold chains step out. At least one woman joins them, but she’s wearing a neon orange bikini and cowboy boots.
Clearly she’s the entertainment.

“Post-apocalyptic whore,” I remark, thinking of Fitz’s line.

“You say something pal,” the guy from the VW Bug snarls.

I shake my head and say no more. The standoff continues for another minute until a seventh car pulls up and stops. This one is a white limousine. The driver gets out and opens the rear door. Another scantily clad young girl hops out, but is followed by a dark skinned man wearing a top hat and tuxedo jacket. Blue jeans with holes in the knees lead down to fancy blue tennis shoes.
You gotta be kidding me.
It feels like a scene from a bad movie.

“Kind sir,”
Top Hat
inquiries from behind his loyal subjects. “What can you tell me about those men in the chopper?”

“Nice hat.”

Apparently I raised the shotgun too high because all guns are suddenly pointed my way. I put up my free hand and bend at the knee’s, setting the shotgun on the pavement. I clasp both hands on my head as I stand, nodding to
Top Hat
.

“You were saying?”

“I asked you about the men in the chopper,” he begins again. “They travel this road quite often. Where is it they go?”

“There’s a Costco down the road,” I offer, leaning into the car. “Hold on I have a map.”

Guns click and shake in my direction.

“It’s just a map,” I announce loudly and reach in, flipping up the safety and throwing the switch marked
BAT SIGNAL
.

“Just stop right there,”
Top Hat
barks. “Search him.”

I step back from the car with my hands over my head. I don’t really know if the Vette will be tossed back when the scattershot taillights explode, but I get out of the way on general principle. Three men march around their own cars to get to the Vette. I can see Dickey’s mullet poking up in the driver seat.

“I’m Batman,” I mouth silently as the back of the Vette fires a death cloud of ball bearings into the crowd.

Tap the ruby slippers together three times and repeat after me…

The street is dark and silent, but the scraping body panels wedged under the Vette drag leaving behind a grating sound. The brakes fail when I try to slow down. Turning off the ignition, I let out the clutch. The front tires roll over the sidewalk then stop in the grass in front of my house.
Apparently, when push comes to shove, I can drive a stick.
Fitz stands on the porch in the flickering light of a camping lantern. All the lights on the cul-de-sac are gone.
The plug has been pulled on the electricity.

She runs to the car, but then jumps back when she sees Dickey’s corpse in the passenger seat. I climb out and almost fall into the grass, but she catches me and helps me down. Hugging her as tight as I can manage, she buries her face in my neck and cries
. She is one person I love that has not died today
. I don’t know how long we stand there but at some point she helps me inside. On the porch we pass two bodies wrapped in sheets. Probably Izzy and my mother.
Did Graham’s corpse get sucked back to the future?

Roberta brings me a warm beer at the dining room table. After seeing my blood covered face she fetches a wet towel and a dry one to match. I drink half the beer in silence then wipe down my face and hands. My shirt is covered in dried blood and I peel it off, draping the dry towels over my shoulders when I’m done.

“Only two bodies on the porch,” I remark.

“Izzy and your mom,” Fitz explains quietly reaching out and running her hand down my forearm.

Graham must have been sucked back. At least they can check the clock on his gut pack and see when the mission went sideways.
And did it ever go sideways.

“Graham’s body is upstairs,” Fitz continues.

“He didn’t disappear like he claimed?
Fail Safe
and all.”

“No, Violet is up there,” Roberta adds then slips back in the kitchen.

“Oh no. How is Violet?”

“She’s been very helpful,” Fitz answers in an odd way.

Roberta brings another beer then disappears upstairs. Fitz pulls her chair next to mine and leans her head on my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her and exhale. Try as I might, it’s hard for me to feel a connection to anyone right now.
I’m numb.

“You kill the bastard at least?”

“Nope,” I admit, not wanting to tell the whole story just yet. “Epic fail on my part. I’ll share later, but all I want to do now is sleep.”

There is a crying from upstairs. At first I think it’s Violet, but it’s not a cry of anguish. It’s more like a cry for attention or possibly from hunger.

“It might be hard to get any sleep around here with a brand new baby in the house,” Fitz whispers in my ear.

I’m unsure what to say. Her warm breath floats around my ear echoing her words.
A new baby in the house?
When I turn back she nods her head excitedly. Roberta comes down the stairs cradling the source of the crying all swaddled up in a blanket. She can’t contain her happy face and beams at me before handing the little bundle of joy over.

“You want the good news or the bad news first?” Fitz demands.

“Good.”

“It’s a boy.”

“And the bad?”

“You’re going to need three semi-trailers of cigarettes to put him through college.”

Muffled guffaws are exchanged and she leans over and kisses me on the forehead.

“How?” I gasp, looking at the tiny hands rubbing his eyes.

“Off on the conception date a bit. The little guy’s very premature, but he’s a real fighter.”

“So, she must have gotten pregnant the first week we were together at the beach,” I exhale deeply.

“Got a name?” Roberta interjects in a motherly way. “The child needs a name.”

I ponder this for a moment. He looks up at me and scrunches his face, then stretches his arms over his head.
He’s beautiful and even better, he’s basically Izzy
. I’m undecided on the name, but promise to think about it. I sit up in a recliner for several hours until the baby’s crying won’t stop. Roberta takes him for a feeding. They tell me we still have some powdered milk, but will have to sort out the food issue tomorrow. I watch him disappear into the kitchen, then catch Fitz watching me smile.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come back,” she admits then kisses me on ear, her other hand pressing my shoulder. “You might never have known.”

“Well, I’m here now. I’ve got nowhere better to be.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” she groans. “We need to talk.”

“Can it wait till tomorrow?”

“Not really. I need to show you something.”

She takes my hand and leads me up the stairs. The door to my room is closed, but light from a lantern or candle glows from under the door. She puts a hand on the door and pauses.

“Take a deep breath,” she warns and then pushes the door in.

On my bed is Graham’s body. It’s under a sheet, but since Violet is resting in a comfortable chair stolen from my mother’s room I assume its Graham. Violet nods at me and forces a smile.

“What’s this about?” I blurt out then lower my voice. “Catch me up here?”

“Show him,” Fitz orders.

Violet holds out her arm and reveals a white bandage around her wrist. There’s some blood on the tape holding it on, but it’s not too bad. A thin wire runs out from it and trails under the sheet. Fitz lifts up on the cover and the wire runs into a grotesque incision in Graham stomach. I am first upset at the thought Fitz cut him open but notice a bullet hole near the incision. She was probably trying to save him.
Is he still here because the gut packs heart monitor is wired to Violet now?

“What have you done?”

“Kept him here until you came back,” Violet whispers, then covers her face after seeing my expression. “We thought you’d want us to.”

“Fitz, you better start talking quick,” I warn, wagging a finger in her face.

“Hold on,” she whispers, grabbing my finger in mid wag. “Come outside so you don’t wake the baby.”

We both nod at Violet, then slip down the stairs to the porch. Fitz gets us two more warm beers and we stand in silence waiting for the other to speak.
This day just keeps getting worse
.

“He didn’t die right away,” she begins. “After I delivered the baby, Violet was still laying over him in the yard. When I checked his neck, his heart was still beating, but just barely.”

“Good for you, but why gut him?”

“If his heart stops, he gets sucked back to the future supposedly, right?”

“That was what he told us.”

“When I tried to stop the bleeding I ran into that machine inside him. The wire was hooked up to an artery in his chest. I pulled it and hooked it up to Violet.”

“Why,” I shrug. “To what end?”

“I just wanted you to have no regrets Dylan. I didn’t want to close the door on Izzy without at least consulting you.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I wail, throwing the beer at the smoldering Vette and bouncing it off the front tire.

“Stop being a giant baby and think about it. If I unhook that wire from Violet, his body is going to disappear from here and reappear thirty minutes before Lance and his team come back in time, right?”

“Supposedly, but why is that relevant?” I whine in confusion. “Were you thinking I would want to grab a knife and carve a love note to Izzy in his back?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she mumbles in a puzzled way, putting a finger to her chin. “Would that be something you’d want to consider?”

I start to scream, but then pause. The relevant information here is that on the other end of this wire
Izzy is alive
. The problem is sending her the message won’t accomplish anything. The version of her in the future hasn’t met me yet. Any message would be ignored and she would go right on being Lance’s girl.
This is stupid.
Besides, the fact is that this timeline is set in stone. The Lance residing here is still destined to be King of the Hive and no matter what; my version of Izzy will still be dead.

“Dylan?”

“No, you can’t send a note to someone who doesn’t know you.”

“Okay, good. That option’s off the table.”

“Wait, what?” I stutter. “If that wasn’t your plan, what is?”

“I thought maybe you’d want to go yourself and warn her about Lance,” she suggests calmly. “Then you two could run off and play Buck Rogers together.”

She’s mad. Fitz is stark raving mad. I reach over and take her beer away. Shaking my head, I can’t believe Violet let her do this. As the anger passes, I take a swig of warm beer and think of Izzy.
Will she be just standing there in front of a big machine waiting to go?
What would a woman think of a guy still smoking from cosmic rays barging in and proclaiming his everlasting love? A man she has never met. Before I can walk away, Izzy’s face plays across my memory like a slide show.
What would I be willing to sacrifice to see it one more time?

“Catch me up on the how you’re going to make this happen?” I ask timidly and pause. “In theory.”

“Thought so,” Fitz smirks, grabbing her beer back.

…

The sound of crickets floats across the cul-de-sac. Without the great engine of humanity running it’s quiet. Without any ambient light it’s also very dark. At first it was a little unsettling, possibly scary, but after all these months I have learned to enjoy it. My son is sleeping in my arms as I sit on the porch. He clenches his tiny fists under his chin; giving the appearance he’s working very hard to remain asleep.
How could I leave him?

To me he smells like Izzy, but this is probably just me trying to deal with all that’s happened. He’s not heavy, but my arms ache from being in this position for so long. An entire day spent digging graves has left me weary.
People who in passing make fun of grave digging as a job title should spend a day doing it
. Just past the porch sits the Vette, still smelling of burnt radiator fluid and fiberglass.

The sporadic gunfire of the previous days has ceased and three men from town paid us a visit to tell of their victory. It seems they were well armed and trained by Lance’s goons. For now, the safety of the cul-de-sac is preserved. Food, water and medicine will be a constant problem, but we are hopeful of some intervention from the military. Radio broadcasts on an old tube radio the towns people have indicates a visit from them may be forthcoming. They tell a harrowing tale however, describing the United States in the past tense.
What will the next few years bring?

“You should take him inside,” Roberta whispers from the screen door. It’s chilly out there tonight.”

It’s not cold out, but women seem to think babies should be sheltered at all costs. I’m thankful for Roberta’s mothering instinct. She slips out and I hold my son up for her to take. Roberta handles him gently, kissing him on the forehead once she has possession of him.

“Does he have a proper name yet or is he destined to be referred to as Baby John Doe?” she pesters me.