Tourists of the Apocalypse (24 page)

She shakes her head and points a finger at me.

“Oh please,” I groan. “We probably will wind up having to bury one and another. What do I write on the Wheaties box tombstone for you?”

“It’s dreadful,” she groans, but sees me crossing my arms. “Jessabelle.”

“Your parents named you Jessabelle?” Izzy blurts out. “Jessabelle what?”

“Jessabelle Anastasia Fitzsimons,” she recites slowly. “And yes, I got the crap kicked out of me in primary school.”

“Is it a family name?” I ask over the top of Izzy’s laughter.

“No, it’s a Hebrew name indicating pure or virginal,” she explains.

“Is it accurate?” Izzy snorts, swerving around an old tire in the road.

“Not in a long time,” she chuckles. “My mother was a little off.”

“I meant the Jewish part,” Izzy fires, another zinger.

“Also not in a long time,” Fitz repeats with a smile.

Up ahead, the final city overpass looms. With the binoculars I see there is a far greater crowd. There is a line of cars on the right shoulder of the road. The right lane is blocked under the overpass by a box truck with
Pringles
painted on the back doors.
Man, I could go for some chips right now.

“Any brilliant ideas?” Izzy grumbles, speeding up.

“If it’s not broke, don’t fix it,” Fitz suggests. “That’s what my Daddy used to say.”

“So what then? Run wide open and use the snow plow approach?” I snort, shocked that this is her solution.

“Jessabelle has a point,” Izzy suggests, adjusting her butt in the seat. “We ride the horn all the way in and hope they back up out of force of habit.”

“Or self-preservation,” Fitz adds.

“And the ones that don’t?” I ask.

“Whack-a-Mole,” Izzy sighs.

I turn and put my hand out in Fitz’s direction. She holds the gun to her chest, but I wiggle my fingers. If she’s not going to shoot, I would prefer it was in the front seat.

“I’m good,” she assures me. “The safety’s off.”

“Suit yourself,” I nod and turn around, holding the shot gun against the side window.

For whatever reason there are no cars the last half mile leading up to the overpass. It’s odd, but I don’t verbalize my concern. The folks move aside far earlier than they have too. The first honk splits them like the red sea.
Why are these folks so obliging?
Izzy moves into the left lane to avoid the Pringles truck as we go under the overpass.

From behind the Pringles truck a green compact car begins rolling into our path. In the split second before we collide with it I see a dozen men pushing it.
They funneled us in and waited
. Izzy turns away, but at this speed and constricted by the poured concrete overpass supports there aren’t any better options. Our station wagon T-bones the green car, pushing it down the highway in front of us. Glass explodes from the battered vehicle, hitting our windshield like hail. The sudden deceleration flings me into the dash and Fitz tumbles over the seat back, landing on the floorboards between myself and Izzy.

As we slow, the green car slips off the passenger side in the process turning us sideways on the highway, albeit a hundred yards away from the crowd at the overpass. Steam blows out one side of the hood, which is bent up in front. Izzy, who hit the steering wheel pretty hard, is pulling her wrist back through the wheel wincing. Her head scans from side to side before landing on me.

“They sandbagged us,” she stutters, eyes unfocused.

I spread my fingers out on the dash and don’t feel the vibration of the engine. My ears seem to have failed, although it’s probably shock.
The car isn’t running.
Fitz moans; her head down next to my feet in the middle. Glancing out the passenger window I see a dozen silhouettes heading this way.

“Start the car,” I demand.

“What,” Izzy mumbles confused, cradling one arm over her chest.

“Start—the –car,” I order slowly. “Start the bloody car.”

“Right,” she stammers, her eyes clouded, but she can’t reach across for the keys with her left hand as she cradles the right.

I reach over and turn the key, but nothing happens. Izzy slaps at me with her hand, but suddenly Fitz pops her head up the middle, having righted herself. She leans across Izzy and whispers in her ear. Izzy shakes her head, pushes in the clutch, and nods for Fitz turns to the key.
Thank God for Fitz
.

The engine rolls over and over but won’t start. Steam shoots out of the passenger side of the bent hood as if a tea kettle had reached the boiling point. I roll the side window down and look along the rear fender. Black smoke pours from the exhaust. Past that, a menacing crowd is within forty yards.

“No time,” I groan, reaching over Fitz and digging in the ripped carpet.

I feel for the guillotine switch that connects the second battery, but it’s already down.
We are so screwed
. Whatever battery power we possess is already trying to turn the starter.

Feeling around the floor, my hands finally land on the shotgun. Something runs in my eye and I swipe at it with the back of my hand. It comes back bloody and I bend my neck forward to wipe it on my shirt.
I must have hit my forehead on the dash
. The engine cranking slows and Fitz lets her hand off the key. I look annoyed, but she shakes her head vehemently.

“Give it a minute,” she coughs. “A minute.”

“We may not have that much time,” I lament, pushing the door open.

It creaks and I only get it halfway open. Slipping out I can see the front fender is shoved back a few inches, now overlapping the door. The entire car is bowed with the nose up slightly and the middle lower than it was before. At best the frame is bent a few degrees at the firewall.
At worst it’s irreversibly broken.

I step to the rear bumper and bring the shotgun to my shoulder. Blood obscures my vision, but I pick out the closet moving object and fire. The slug flies into the crowd and hits a guy three rows back. I fire two more times, slowing the advancing army. A return shot hits the pavement at my feet and pings off the car.
Okay, I am not the only one with a gun.

“Start the car ladies,” I bark, returning to the passenger door and firing two more bursts into the crowd.

When I look over Fitz turns the key and I hold my breath. There is a loud cough, then the motor roars, steam wafting out from under the hood as the fan starts turning. Izzy puts her left hand on the spinner knob and shoulder butts Fitz.

“Let’s go Jessabelle,” she orders.

Fitz, sitting with one leg on either side of the shifter, maneuvers the white cue ball into first gear. It grinds, but sticks. Izzy steps on the gas and the car fishtails wildly. Something hits the back, probably thrown by the crowd.

“Go for second,” Izzy shouts and Fitz pulls the shifter back between her legs.

The car lurches ahead in second gear. Izzy turns the spinner knob and we straighten out. A shot strikes the windshield, having passed through the entire length of the wagon and hit it from the inside.

“Son of a—,” Fitz screams, ducking down.

The engine winds up and sounds like it will explode, but a tap from Izzy signals Fitz to move the shifter forward and we lurch ahead once again. Peeking back, I see the mob could never catch us now. Another shift pushes us over 60 MPH and I exhale a sigh of relief.

“That was close,” I moan. “Let’s not do that again.”

I notice the car weaving back and forth a hair. It’s more a wobble, than a shake. Looking over I can see Izzy having a hard time keeping us straight. She clings to the steering wheel knob with her good hand, her face wearing a pained grimace.

“Problem over there?”

“We need a front end alignment,” Izzy complains, then nods forward. “And probably a radiator.”

Steam spills from the passenger fender as we fly along. If the radiator was blown, the steam would have dissipated by now. I would guess the reservoir is cracked or the hose is loose, but who really knows.

“I think we are good,” I announce. “It’s just steam from a pin prick or a cracked reservoir.”

“Ya think,” Fitz snaps, climbing into the back seat. “Smells burnt to me.”

“Can you keep it straight?”

Izzy nods, but when I widen my eyes at her, she shrugs and wags her head back and forth.
She’s saying its fifty, fifty then.
The motor roars from a new exhaust leak created in the collision as we blaze a trail down the empty highway. Hardly an abandoned car lies in our path, but the shaking from the front end is unnerving.

“Let’s stop and take a look,” I recommend, worried the one armed driver won’t be able to keep this up for long.

“Maybe,” Izzy shrugs. “Do you think they have a car?”

“Who?”

“The guys that just tossed a compact car in front of us?”

“Probably,” I admit, thinking it’s unlikely this is the only running car in Shreveport.

“Then I vote we put as much distance between us and them as we can before we melt the engine.”

“You think they will come?” Fitz buzzes from the back.

“I know we aren’t outrunning anyone in this car after that ambush,” Izzy contends. “We should try and get far enough away that they don’t follow.”

“I’m with her,” Fitz remarks, patting Izzy on the shoulder.

“It passes unanimously then,” I chime in agreement. “Pedal down till we blow.”

…

Two hours later Izzy’s wrist is swollen up as if a golf ball were inserted under her skin. She drives one handed as none of us want to slow down the car to swap. I can tell from the look in her eyes she’s hurting. Water has built up, causing the occasional tear to leak down her face. Fitz finally leans over the front seat and whispers something in her ear. Izzy nods and takes her foot off the gas pedal. The steam that had been pouring out from under the hood had long stopped, but was replaced by a whining noise that sounds like someone is skinning a live farm animal.

We slow along a deserted section of highway and she puts on the e-brake. I help her slide over and Fitz tries to get in, but the fender is pushed back over the driver’s door and it won’t open. I lean over and roll the window down allowing her to crawl in. Izzy curls up against my chest and sniffles. Her body trembles slightly and I hold her tight to still her shaking. Once relived of driving she breaks down a bit. It’s late afternoon and the temp has to be over eighty. No ice or aspirin proves she is tougher than me. I am shocked and proud of her
.
This tour guide is one tough lady.

Fitz puts the car into first gear and the engine whines, but we don’t move. Looking frustrated she tries second and gets a similar outcome, the gear box just grinds and then clunks signaling the end of that gear inside the transmission. She glances over and holds up crossed fingers.
Please have a gear, any gear is our unspoken wish.

Third gear grinds but the car jerks forward. Slowly pushing the accelerator, we begin a lazy roll. The car is about to stall from using third gear from a stand still. She looks over and shrugs before applying more pedal. There’s a familiar roar and the engine drags us forward, but then it just stops. It doesn’t clank or sputter, but simply goes silent.
It just froze up
. Fitz pumps the gas and cranks the engine but the starter won’t even turn. We roll to a stop and sit, unable to speak. In the quiet, the spraying of fluid can be heard hitting the pavement. As we wait, it sounds like someone turned on a high pressure faucet.

“I didn’t feel like driving anyway,” Fitz states matter-of-factly.

We both chuckle and then it grows into a belly laugh. Our little group just sits together listening to the engine block crack. We exit the car, climbing out the windows. Izzy remains in the car, now curled up on the seat. Bending over to look under from each side Fitz and I see red fluid shooting out of a crack in the transmission. The puddle runs backward under the rear axle and behind the car. Standing, I look over the roof and shrug.

“I think we’re done here.”

“It’s amazing we got this far,” Fitz remarks, shaking her head.

“What now?” I whisper, curling a finger to draw her away from the car and out of hearing range for Izzy. “Is the wrist broken?”

“Looks like it. She must have shoved it through the steering wheel in the crash.”

“Prognosis?”

“We should immobilize it, but it’s going to hurt like hell either way,” she explains. “More pressing is what do we do now?”

“Get what we can in the backpacks and get off the road,” I propose. “Maybe stick to the highway until we see an exit and then move off before we get there.”

“That plan is as good as any other,” she agrees and puts out her hand. “If I didn’t thank you before let me do it now. I’m sure you saved me from a horrible end.”

“You’re welcome,” I sigh, shaking. “You can pay me back by taking care of my girl.”

“My pleasure.”

Izzy gets it together once we get the wrist steady. Fitz wraps a rolled up newspaper around it from the elbow to past her fingers. We rip the decorative edge of the seat upholstery off and wind it tight. She winces and grits her teeth but is again stoic in the face of agonizing pain. Gathering up the backpacks we stumble down the road. After an hour we stop for a water break and lean on a pickup truck. The sun will be setting soon and we all look down the road at an RV beached in the center median.

“Almost certainly we would be killed if we slept out in the open like that,” Izzy groans. “But the bed would be worth it.”

“It’s rural and we haven’t seen a car since we stopped,” I point out hopefully.

“And we are armed to the teeth,” Fitz chuckles. “We could all take a watch while the others sleep.”

“Good vantage point from on top,” Izzy fires out, clearly wanting to lay down.

“It’s an ant trap,” Fitz points out, bringing sanity back into the discussion. “Everyone passing by will look in.”

Peering past the girls, I notice a shadow on the road a mile or so away. I’m hesitant to mention it as good humor has finally washed over a bad situation. Izzy notices me looking and squints in that direction.