“They’re lighting the branches out here.” A hint of panic in Sheila’s voice. “I’m serious, guys. This fire’s getting big.” The smell of smoke grew stronger.
“Here they come,” Bill shouted.
A half-dozen Goats screamed toward the snack bar, weapons in one hand, flaming brands in the other. The one out front carried a bucket instead of a brand, some kind of liquid slopping over the sides. Mortimer stood straight, fired two quick bursts from each machine pistol. Three Goats stumbled and went down, including the one with the bucket, but he heaved it as he went down. It flew, landed against the front windowsill with a watery metallic clung. The liquid splashed half in through the window and half down the front of the snack bar. The pungent odor hit Mortimer immediately, unmistakable.
Gasoline.
Ohhhhhh…shit.
Mortimer blazed away at the other three running Goats coming fast with the fire, the machine pistols bucking and smoking. He put two down fast, but only caught the third with a grazing hit in the shoulder, a light mist of blood flying. The slobbering, crazy-eyed Goat didn’t even flinch, leapt through the front window, ignited the fire, flames spreading up the outside of the snack bar and over two booths within.
The Goat caught himself on fire too, stood there in the middle of the sudden blaze, his pants and sleeves burning. He screamed and danced.
Bill put him down with a shot from the Peacemaker.
Smoke filled the interior of the snack bar, and Mortimer felt the heat wash over him. He slammed home two new magazines, cocked the machine pistols and fired at the vague figures barely visible through the thick smoke, not knowing if he hit anything or not.
“Be advised, Blowfish,” Ted yelled into the radio mike. “Zone is hot. Repeat, zone is hot.”
“We see your smoke,” came the voice of Blowfish through the static. “We’re inbound now. Be prepared to board.”
A helicopter, thought Mortimer. Holy crap, the old wizard arranged a chopper. Mortimer could hear something coming, the high-pitched buzz of some engine. It was coming.
“Time to go,” Mortimer shouted.
Sheila coughed, wiped her red eyes. “You think?”
“I’m ready,” Bill said.
The flames licked higher, but the doorway was still clear. Mortimer emptied the machine pistols to clear the way, then slapped in the last two magazines.
“Now!”
They climbed over the counter, shrinking from the flames, snot running, eyes watering. They hit the door, out into the open. The cool air hit Mortimer, clean and fresh. He filled his lungs but didn’t have time to enjoy it. Crossbow bolts flew past his head. He blasted back at the Goats with the machine pistols, sent them scurrying for cover. They popped their heads up again, yelled obscenities, and Mortimer emptied the MAC-10s. He dropped the spent weapons clattering on the stone ground.
“There it is!” cried Ted. He pointed into the sky behind them. “Blowfish! Blowfish!”
Mortimer turned to look at the helicopter.
It wasn’t a helicopter.
The blimp floated through the smoke of the burning snack bar. Filling the sky suddenly, the hornet buzz of its tiny motor and rear propeller was a bizarre contrast to its silent, looming mass. One would almost be tempted to call it majestic.
And one would be mistaken.
The aircraft had probably been used for advertising, providing aerial coverage for golf tournaments and college football games. It was a ragged affair now, patched with mismatched material, netting thrown over the whole thing to help attach the thick ropes that held the open-air gondola underneath, sandbags hanging over the sides.
As crossbow bolts bounced off the stone around his ankles, Mortimer’s disappointment at seeing the inflated monstrosity instead of a rescue chopper was the most profound of his life.
“You must be fucking kidding me.”
The blimp lumbered and bobbed, its descent excruciatingly slow. Figures appeared in the gondola. A top hat and a very long white scarf caught Mortimer’s attention. More lunatics. The blimp passed over them.
And kept going.
Ted jumped into the air, waved his arms. “Where you going? You’re overshooting. Dumb sons of bitches, you’re overshooting!”
The blimp listed, nose dipping as it sailed past, disappearing over the other side of the mountain, down into the tourist area of the park.
Mortimer grabbed Ted by the elbow. “Is it coming back for us?”
Ted jerked his arm away. “It ain’t a goddamn sports car. Blowfish is awkward. A steamship could turn around faster.”
“Decide fast,” Bill said. “We got company.”
The remaining Stone Mountain Goats had worked themselves into a frenzy, jumping up and down, brandishing weapons, grunting like apes. Probably just snorted a few more lines of courage. The Goats must have used up the crossbow bolts, because no more flew. The Goat leader howled bloody murder, and the mob charged.
“Follow me if you want to get off this rock alive.” Ted ran across the stone surface of the mountain toward some kind of small installation two hundred yards away.
Mortimer, Sheila and Bill followed immediately. Mortimer pulled the.45 from his shoulder holster, racked it and thumbed off the safety. Soon Ted had pulled ahead of them, and Mortimer’s breath came short again. The Goats were gaining.
“Drop the backpacks,” Mortimer shouted.
They dropped the gear and picked up speed. Mortimer turned slightly, fired behind him with the.45 without aiming.
Thirty yards out, Mortimer saw they were heading for a Swiss cable car system, a tourist ride, similar to the sky buckets back at Lookout Mountain but with a much larger enclosed gondola. The cable ran down to the tourist area at a steep angle. Ted flung open the door to the cable car and climbed in, turned and waved them on. “Hurry!”
They rushed into the cable car. Mortimer was the last in, turned and emptied the.45 at the oncoming Goats. Two clutched their guts and pitched forward. The rest kept charging, bellowing their rage.
“Does this thing even have power?”
“Nope,” Ted said. “But gravity still works.”
Ted grabbed a sledgehammer from a hook on the interior of the cable car, swung it sideways at a pin in the floor keeping a loop of cable in place. He knocked the pin out, and the cable flew out through the floor like a kid sucking up a strand of spaghetti. The car shook, slid down the cable, picking up speed.
Mortimer looked back through the open door. The Goats stood on the edge of the mountain, shaking fists and screeching incomprehensible curses. They dwindled rapidly behind as the cable car flew faster.
And faster.
“Brace yourself, kids,” Ted said. “This E-ticket ride is gonna go splat.”
Nobody enjoyed the crash.
XLII
When Mortimer had been in the insurance business, he hadn’t sold anything too glamorous. Residential, auto, the occasional policy on a bass boat. As he pushed himself up from the pile of bodies in the forward section of the cable car, he wondered how amusement parks and tourist attractions had ever been able to afford liability coverage. The premiums must have been murder.
In the last sixty feet of their lightning descent, Ted had thrown the hydraulic brake, had leaned his entire body weight into the lever. A clamp grabbed the cable above, sparks flew against the hideous screech of metal on metal. They slowed, but not enough. The cable car crashed into the station, pitching them all forward into one another. They stood up now, stretched and rubbed bruises.
“Everyone okay?” Mortimer asked.
Bill groaned, picked up his Union officer’s hat and snugged it on his head. “Nothing broken.”
“I’m fine,” Sheila said, but she rubbed her shoulder, winced.