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“I never doubted it.”
“Play with your popguns, boys,” says Candy. She pats the Benelli. “Mine’s bigger than both of yours put together.”
“I’ll drink to that,” says Bill.
He kneels and pulls up a couple of floorboards, digs around until he finds a dirty bottle, and sets it on the bar.
“The last man standing.”
“What shall we drink to?” says Candy.
Bill gets three shot glasses from a shelf behind him and wipes out the dust.
“To the end of tumult and the resurrection of delight.”
He pours three shots.
“I don’t see much down here to be delighted about,” says Candy.
“True. But there’s always hope for better days.”
Candy holds up her glass.
“Better days,” she says.
“Better days,” me and Bill say together.
We down our shots. I don’t know what the stuff is. It’s not quite as rough as Aqua Regia, but just barely. More like sweet red wine and motor oil.
Candy makes a face.
“What is this?”
“Hair of the dog,” says Bill. “’Course the dogs down here are mighty homely.”
“Remind me not to kiss any dogs while I’m here,” says Candy.
Bill gives a slight laugh and pours himself another.
“Shall we get moving?”
I look back, thinking about what’s beyond the door.
“I don’t suppose you have any wheels?”
“A motorcar? No. Never cared for ’em. But there’s plenty in the streets. Maybe one will work.”
“Let’s find out.”
There are hundreds of abandoned cars along Pandemonium’s version of Hollywood Boulevard. Some parked and some just ditched at crazy angles in the street. Any of them that look intact, I try. Jam the black blade in the ignition and turn. Candy does the same thing with her knife. We must try twenty cars without a single engine turning over. Then there’s a roar.
Candy got one of the Legion’s big Unimogs running.
“Woo-hoo!” she yells from the cab.
Bill and I run over and get in with her.
She guns the engine and I check the fuel gauge. Almost half a tank.
