Tourists of the Apocalypse by C. F. WALLER

Author:C. F. WALLER [WALLER, C. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CFWALLER.COM
Published: 2019-12-11T16:00:00+00:00

…

Just before dusk we stop to gas up. I snake a long rubber hose down the gas fill tube of a very new lime green Dodge Challenger. Putting the other end in our gas tank I crank the handle on the pump to make the transfer. Lucky for us, the slick bandits had this syphon system already figured out. Staring at the bright green paint, I would no doubt prefer to drive the Dodge. We take turns doing the cranking and switch to a maroon Ford after a bit.

“What do you do?” I ask Fitz while Izzy pumps the gas.

“Nurse.”

“Handing out aspirins and taking temperatures?” Izzy needles her.

“Trauma nurse.”

“Nice,” I jump in. “How did you get into that?”

“Well if you must know I washed out as a surgeon. After being dismissed, I was in the parking lot crying in the front seat of my car when the E.R. Director tapped on the glass and offered me a job.”

“Lucky,” I nod.

“Well, he basically got a surgeon for the price of a nurse, so it might have been his lucky day.”

“You like it?” Izzy asks, pulling the hose out and handing the contraption to me.

“It’s never dull,” she admits. “I’d rather be in the operating room.”

“What happened?” Izzy presses her. “What washed you out?”

“I couldn’t sew,” Fitz shrugs, but in the silence that follows the point is made. Don’t ask about this.

“None of our business,” I interject. “What did that last exit sign say?”

“Delhi,” Fitz calls out.

“Okay, forty miles to Monroe,” Izzy mumbles, looking at her phone. “Another hundred and a half to Shreveport.”

“Why does your phone work?” Fitz butts into Izzy’s mental calculations.

“Long story,” I jump in, worried that explaining that will be difficult.

“Seriously, that’s the first phone I have seen work in over a week.”

“I come from outer space,” Izzy divulges, slipping into the driver seat. “Our technology never fails.”

Fitz watches her slam the door and then eyes me, making a swirling motion with her finger on the side of her head. I shake my head and shrug, unwilling to get involved. We hop in and again the car won’t start. Black smoke bleeds into the open windows behind Fitz before it roars to life. Once we’re moving the burnt smell disappears.

“If we are lucky and make good time we could be outside Shreveport by noon tomorrow,” Izzy announces.

“Is that important?” Fitz queries, leaning her chin on the back of our seat.

“It’s a big city. The highways are almost certain to be crawling with people. By now the food’s gone and they will be fleeing the madness,” Izzy declares. “I want to get close by noon so I can see the lay out in the daylight.”

“Works for me,” I declare, and then point at Fitz. “You want to navigate or sleep first?”

“Sleep,” she responds quickly.

With that, she curls up in the backseat and slips under a rough looking comforter Izzy plucked out of Bill’s garage. I whisper in Izzy’s ear about driving, but she pushes me away and shakes her head.

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