Tourists of the Apocalypse by C. F. WALLER Page A

around. He has to be here doesn’t he? If Dickey’s car is here, then he can’t be far away. Reaching his drive, I can see some serious upgrades to the Mustang. Extra wide low profile tires mounted on honeycomb rims glint in the late afternoon sun. In front, there is what I can only describe as a chrome push bar in front of the bumper. It hangs off two posts that pass through the fascia to either side of the grill. Two giant fog lights at least a foot in diameter are mounted on it. A bright chrome mesh screen protects each of them. The only thing un-changed seems to be the sun backed silver paint and the dings from being backed into things. No attempt has been made to sort out the body, but she looks different with all the accoutrements.
    “He’s not here,” Izzy surprises me from behind.
    “Sneak up on people much?”
    “I called out, but you were already walking away.”
    I can’t imagine this is true, but there is no point in belaboring it. One thing you learn in the military is not to argue. Izzy looks good. She wearing skin tight jeans and a red track jacket with two white stripes up the sleeves, topped off by a Texas A&M visor. Her pony tail pokes out of the top, surprising me with how long it has gotten in my absence. She rushes me and has me in a bear hug before I can say anything. She holds on tight; smothering me in her perfume until it starts to feel odd, and she releases me. When she steps back she’s wearing a smile from ear to ear, a look that’s unfortunately rare for her. For some reason I say the worst possible thing. I watch the words float between us like letters from alphabet soup, but can’t grab them back.
    “Where’s Lance?”
    Hands on her hips, the smile fades away, replaced by a frown. I am such an idiot.
    “I’m fine thanks,” she remarks sarcastically. “Nasty sinus infection last winter, but I feel great now.”
    “Sorry,” I plead, hands up in front of me. “I don’t know why I said that.”
    “He’s out at the site,” she sighs, her smile only partially returning. “How long ya here for?”
    “Three days, I have to be back on base by Tuesday night.”
    “Just Labor Day weekend then?” she mumbles a hand on her chin. “Why not come back next week for your birthday?”
    “Ask Uncle Sam. Where’s Dickey gone without his car?”
    “He’s driving one of T-Bucks creations now. The temporary road into the site is pretty rough and there are some places where it washes out in the rain. He needed something with more ground clearance.”
    “How’s he doing?” I ask, curious how he fits in with Lance’s crew.
    “He seems good. He’s out there most of the time, but when I see him, he’s seems happy.”
    “Who’s the doctor at my place and why is Mr. Dibble in my bed?” I ask, watching her lean her butt on the car and cross her arms.
    “Luke Barnes, he’s got an office on the far side of town. Lance didn’t want Mr. Dibble to go to the clinic and as you know, no one’s allowed inside the houses.”
    “So you took him over to mine?” I shrug, annoyed. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”
    This causes a dramatic pause in our conversation. Arms crossed, she eyes me wrinkling her nose and waiting for me to either rephrase or go first. Rather than come up with different wording, I spend a moment running the possibilities through my mind. I tossed out all the living room furniture years ago to make room for the Round Table so that’s a nonstarter, not that the couch we had was very inviting. Cushions were probably full of Jarod’s beer farts .
    “Hotel,” I utter, more thinking out loud than choosing.
    “Sixty miles down the highway,” she points out, arms still crossed and staring. “I didn’t see a car in your driveway.”
    “Stop enjoying yourself,” I groan, which brings laughter from her.
    “Let’s have a drink,” she suggests, pushing herself off the car. “They teach you how to drink in the Army?”
    The answer to that question is a resounding