Tourists of the Apocalypse (29 page)

“I should probably call security?” she barks down.

“I took your note as an invitation.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she gripes, pretending to be annoyed.

“My mistake.”

Grinning, she slips down the ladder on the side of the tower. When she hits the ground I start to grab her, but she puts up a hand. Behind us Fitz shouts something and we see her running in our direction.

“Not here,” Izzy whispers. “Wait for Jessabelle.”

I do as instructed, watching Fitz and Izzy share a long hug.
Why is it girls can hug without judgment?
Izzy walks Fitz to the ladder and the two exchange words. Fitz takes Izzy’s green jacket and matching visor. She pulls her hair out the top, making a pony tail that matches Izzy’s with a rubber band pulled from somewhere on her person. Fitz scrambles up the ladder and sits high above. Izzy leads me away as Fitz scans the horizon with the binoculars.

“What did you tell her?” I whisper as she leads me back to the main buildings.

“Stay off the radio and look busy. I basically do nothing so it’s unlikely anyone will notice.”

We pass by the door in the smaller pole barn that appears to be offices. Down another twenty yards is a sliding door. She pushes it open and we slip inside. The pole barn is huge, equipment and vehicles line the center. She starts up a ladder on the wall next to the sliding door. It’s made of rough cut 2X4’s screwed to a beam running up the side of the structure. I have to hold on tight to every board to keep from falling off. The makeshift ladder comes out onto a balcony. There is no second floor in the barn; this overhang is more like a shelf. It seems to be where they store smaller implements and power tools. If this were out in the real world, I would think they were up here to keep them from getting stolen, but I doubt there is any theft here. She closes a trap door over the place where the ladder pokes through and grabs me.

“Oh God,” she squeezes me. “I was hoping you would come.”

“Well, you did seem to indicate this course of action.”

She stands on tip toes holding me for some time. We kiss and after five minutes or so she steps back and pulls her tee shirt over her head. She tosses it down and unbuttons her jeans, then stops and stares at me.

“Well?” she whispers.

“Here?” I stammer, looking around the small room for some comfort, but finding only one, a leather recliner that looks very out of place.

“Unless you’d rather not,” she pouts, wiggling her jeans down a bit and glancing over her shoulder at the recliner.

“Why is that even up here?” I mutter, pulling my shirt off.

“People steal naps up here,” she reveals, kicking off her pants. “Get over here before I change my mind.

“You’re the boss.”

We stay there for at least two hours until Izzy jumps up and orders me to dress. She explains the next shift will be coming on at 6 PM. We climb down un-noticed and stroll back to the tower. Fitz practically races down the ladder, returning Izzy’s jacket and visor.

“I have to pee,” she blurts and races toward the buildings.

We watch her and try not to laugh. I can see now how she escaped the road rapists on foot.
The girl can really fly
. Izzy pushes my hand away when I try to hug her.

“Go find Fitz and get something to eat,” she orders. “I’ll be in the main hall later. Make sure you’re all over Fitz if you choose to fraternize with the people here. I’ll be very disappointed if she’s not in your lap.”

“I hate this.”

“Here and I thought we had a real nice visit,” she huffs sarcastically and climbs the ladder on the life guard tower.

….

Fitz and I have a nice dinner in the mess hall, a large low ceilinged room. There are many round tables surrounded by chairs. We order from a menu and slide trays across a short shelf on the wall to where the food is dispensed. It’s basically like a high school cafeteria. We have been here once before and the food is excellent.

After dinner, we do go down to the main hall. I didn’t visit in here on my previous trip. There is a bar along one side of the two-story, open air room. Several pool tables line the other side and music blares from a huge juke box. One wall is covered in Dallas Cowboys memorabilia. It’s odd to see remnants of the lost world, but this is Texas. Two dozen men and women relax around tables. I suppose if you’re going to have all these people working for you they have to live somewhere. Fitz and I get a pitcher of beer, which like everything else is free, and shoot pool for the first hour. She beats me nearly every game, but draws a crowd of fans almost immediately. I chalk this up to her being a new comer, but also due to her playful personality.

I go for another pitcher and return to find Lance and Izzy chatting up Fitz. Two other couples are with them, one being Cain and a heavyset blonde, the other Able with what I assume is his boyfriend. It appears here at the Hive there is no judgmental sentiment on same sex relationships. When I comment on this, uncomfortable glares flash back at me. Apparently, in the future being a homosexual is frowned upon.
A good reason for Able to become a tour guide.

Izzy has changed and showered; now wearing a flower pattern peasant skirt and a gold blouse. All I get is a nod as she sits on the other side of the table. Lance plays Fitz and beats her handily. The blonde, whose name turns out to be Greta, then plays Lance, while we drink and watch. Fitz comes over and sits in my lap, causing Izzy to cover her mouth and try not to laugh. Various people play Lance, but none best him. I don’t bother playing; instead just share stolen glances with Izzy. Fitz finally beats Lance on her third try, going into a samurai sword wielding show after making the last shot. Lance looks un-amused at first, but pretends to smile once the crowd gathered around applauds.

A chant of
rematch, rematch
breaks out, but Lances waves them off and returns to Izzy. I spend two more games sitting uncomfortably watching Fitz beat Greta and another one of Lance’s lieutenants. Izzy puts an arm around his waist and sighs at me when he isn’t looking. I can’t recall how many pitchers we have had as others have been filling Fitz’s glass all night. I’m trying to get her attention so we can leave when Lances hand lands on the small round table.

“Dylan,” he frowns. “I don’t recall asking you to come out.”

“Surprise,” I shrug.

“I’m glad you did. Izzy adores your girlfriend,” he tells me and then pauses.

“Fitz,” I offer, assuming he can’t remember her name.

“Right Fitz,” he nods. “You’re a cute couple. Where did you manage find her?”

“Expressway on-ramp.”

“Well she’s quite a catch. Probably too good for you though,” he points out as we watch her do a whiskey shot with two of his guys. “You should probably keep a short leash on her before she decides to upgrade.”

Putting his hand on my shoulder we share an uncomfortable silence. I shrug off his hand and stand, pondering the odds his Stormtroopers will break up the fight if I punch him. If they don’t, he’s liable to wipe the floor with me, an idea that I find untenable. He seems happy when I stand, sensing the inevitable skirmish.
Why shouldn’t he? This is his home court.

Before I can say anything Izzy grabs his hand and pulls. He glances back and shrugs her off. By the time he does Fitz has slipped in between us and wrapped her arms around my neck. I try and speak, but she locks her lips over mine. When I attempt to say something anyway she shoves her tongue in my mouth, ending all hope of speaking. Over her shoulder with one eye I see Lance grin. He was hoping for trouble, but since that’s probably going to happen at some point he lets it go. Fitz keeps kissing me long after Izzy tows Lance away by a hand. When she comes up for air she scans the room for trouble.

“I think they’re leaving,” I sigh, putting my hands on her hips to push her away a bit.

“Dickey’s gotta make a run back in the morning and we are going with him,” she sighs. “Before you wind up dead or worse.”

“What’s worse than dead?”

“You have a point,” she groans, watching Izzy and Lance slip out the door. “And yet we are outta here tomorrow.”

“But we can come back, right?” I mutter drunkenly as she leads me out a door on the other side of the room. “To visit.”

“Yes, yes,” she whispers. “Conjugal visits only.”

…

In the morning, we scream down the highway in the bright sun. Fitz is puffy eyed and jaundice looking. She must have drunk far more than I did. Her hair is tangled and puffing uncombed from under a Boston Red Sox baseball hat gifted to her by some admirer the night before. She got up during the night on two occasions to throw up, waking me both times when she tried to get in bed on my side. She’s curled in the backseat with her arms crossed. I didn’t see Dicky at all last night, but he seems fine, his eyes hidden behind the copper colored shades.

“Didn’t you used to smoke?” I quiz him, having been wondering about this all yesterday.

“Yuh, yuh, yeah,” he stutters. “Too hard to come by now, besides Lance hates people smoking.”

I have no doubt King Lance would prefer not to have to procure a precious resource like cigarettes for his people if he didn’t absolutely have to.
It was water, cigarettes and bullets in that order.

“Why do you think they have Mr. Dibble on our street and not onsite here?” I pry, thinking I have Dickey alone so why not see what he knows. “Not that you don’t do a fantastic job running back and forth.”

“Can, can, can’t build the chips this close to the reactor,” he answers, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Why?”

“Suh, suh, some magnetic field. Whatever they use in place of silicon,” he rambles on then pauses. “Swift, swift, swiftex,” he nods, slapping his forehead with a palm. “It won’t dry right if it’s too close.”

“How in the hell do you know that?” I blurt out, stunned that short bus Dickey would have any technical information.

“Aye, Aye, Aye,” he mutters, then slaps his hand on his thigh. “Hear people talking. They talk right in front of me like I’m not even there.”

This strikes me as plausible. The people he runs back and forth for wouldn’t hesitate to talk in front of him. Even I assumed he was clueless. I should probably give him more credit.
He did save my life
. Lance didn’t order him after us. Dickey asked if he could help.

“Anything else interesting you might have overheard?” I keep digging.

“Luh, luh, like, what?”

“The future,” I toss out. “What comes next?”

“Fuh, fuh, forming up road teams,” he discloses, tapping his hand on the steering wheel. “But, but, but will they let me sign up?” he stutters, shaking his head. “No way, like what’s wrong with me?”

“Road teams,” I mutter. “Slow down Dickey. What’s a road team?”

“Nuh, nuh, next month they are going to start sending two cars as escorts with Lance’s truck. Wuh, wuh, with anything coming or going down the road.”

“Why?” I inquire, becoming aware that under stress his stuttering impediment gets much worse.

“Thuh, thuh, there’s going to be more gang activity soon.”

“You mean like the car that chased you yesterday?”

“Ruh, ruh, right. More organized groups. T-Buck’s calling them
Road Pirates
.”

“And they can’t make the chips any closer to the reactor?”

“Bub, bub. Bingo,” he nods hard enough to hit his head on the steering wheel.

“Why won’t they take you? You’re a great driver.”

“Guh, guh, guns.”

“It’s their loss.”

“Duh, duh, duh,” he points a shaky finger at me. “Damn right.”

This is all interesting information. I’ll assume they know what’s to come due to their time-travel tour guide status. So it’s going to get rougher out here and they need to keep the
Dibble Integrated Chip Factory
running for now.
How long will they need it?
If in fact they fold up the tent here in my little corner of the world, will they take us with them? I think about my mother and Violet being left to fight for themselves and wince. I make a mental note to ask Graham about this possibility.

….

Over the next two months I take bi-weekly trips out to the Hive with Dickey and Fitz. I get to know some of the people there. On these occasions, Izzy and I spend a few quiet moments in her recliner room. While I spend every waking hour between visits dreaming about this, I have to admit the relationship is missing something. When we were on the run all by ourselves we talked and laughed. There was a connection between us that’s lost in this new arrangement. When I think too long on this subject it always comes down to Lance.
Why can’t we sort this out with him?
If we just came clean is there any chance he would shake it off and wish us well? I laugh to myself at the mere thought.
No frigging way.

The social room is awash with drunken good cheer tonight. Fitz sinks a bank shot on the eight, beating Lance for the third game in a row. She turns and gives him a nice view of her butt, then slaps it and points at him. His reaction is pure bile, but he smiles with gritted teeth out of necessity.
Did she lose to him on purpose when we first came out here?
She appears far too unbeatable now for it to be attributed to practice and improvement.
How many steps ahead of me is she thinking?

His obvious anger at losing is inflamed by the vast amount of liquor he’s sucked down. Losing momentary control, he flies her the bird and stumbles over to Izzy, who gets off the stool and lets him sit. Fitz is surrounded by guys and girls alike congratulating her. There seems to be a prevailing current of anti-Lance sentiment that reveals itself now and again. For some reason competition lets it out; evidently during games you’re allowed to cheer for your favorite or against your least favorite.

Fitz plays and wins two more games while I stare at Izzy. When Fitz notices my glances being met by Lance, she scurries over and lavishes me with attention. While this amuses Lance, I think it’s taking a toll on Izzy. Her relationship with Fitz has been on the decline of late. Today during our meeting in the loft, she asked me offhandedly if Fitz was any good in bed. When I balked at the silly inference she took it as confirmation.
I don’t know how much longer this act can go on.