Mortimer sat hunched over a plate of baked beans, a slab of ham and a biscuit. In between bites, he slurped at a cool pewter mug of Freddy’s Dishwater Lager. He might have claimed the meal tasted heaven-sent, except he wasn’t sure he believed in religious experiences anymore. Anyway, the food was good and filled him.

A work crew had filled up the empty space in the church with chairs and tables. Mortimer glanced up from his plate. The crucifix had been replaced with a sign reading JOEY ARMAGEDDON’S SASSY A-GO-GO, lit up with garish pink light. The sound system worked well with the church’s acoustics, and the Violent Femmes’ “Blister in the Sun” came out of the speakers at a tolerable volume.

The twitchy, bug-eyed man sitting across from him squinted at the pink membership card again and began apologizing for the third time.

“You see, officially we’re not even supposed to be open yet. It’s just that it’s so damned expensive getting everything up and running, and a little cash flow wouldn’t hurt. You see what I mean, right? Serve a few meals, pour a few beers. I only have four girls and one’s down with diarrhea.”

Davis Shelby had been a syndicated film and television critic back when people had cared about such things. He was short and spindly and hawk-faced, with a thatch of Brillo-pad hair the color of dull copper. He made a habit of dabbing at his face constantly with a threadbare handkerchief. Somehow he’d come into a Joey’s franchise, but in less than half an hour, Mortimer had formed the opinion that the whole operation might fall down around his ears any moment. Whatever qualities might be considered the exact opposite of leadership and organizational skills, Davis Shelby possessed them in spades.

“You’re allowed a line of credit, of course,” Shelby told him. “Normally up to five hundred dollars. That’s just standard for Platinum members.” He dabbed at his sweaty forehead with the handkerchief. “But we’ve just had the devil’s worst time getting shipments. We were supposed to get a strongbox of currency a week ago, but there’s been no sign of the wagon train up from Chattanooga. Without the currency, we can’t buy goods to fill up the store, pay for booze deliveries. It’s really been a pain in the ass.”

“I’ll take the five hundred in trade.” Mortimer shoved another biscuit into his mouth, washed it down with lager. “Is there anything in the store at all? I need a gun, food and gear for a long hike. Socks. I want some socks.”

“Of course,” Shelby said. “We do have some things. We’ve been stocking since December. It really is never-ending. There’s always something to do or something breaking, or you hire a fellow to tend bar and he’s killed by Red Stripes or disease or some damn thing. I can’t keep the place staffed for shit.”

“Maybe owning a club isn’t your thing.”

“I thought it would be like Rick’s in Casablanca, very romantic, and I could wear a white tuxedo jacket and there would be music and pretty girls.”

“But without the Nazis.”

“Right!” He wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief. His body produced enough sweat for three men. “Instead it’s like running a saloon in a spaghetti western. Men drink whiskey until they’re ready for a whore, and if there isn’t a whore available then they want to fight. And if they lose the fight, then somebody has to mop up the blood. And the guy who mops up the blood quit, so I have to mop up the fucking blood. Bogart never had to mop blood. A circus. It’s like being ringmaster of some psycho circus.”

Mortimer nodded at the pink light. “At least you have electricity.”

“Six men for the bicycles in the basement. Got to have juice for music and lights and refrigeration.”

Mortimer spooned in the last of the food, considered licking the plate. “I saw a place a few days ago that had electricity. One hundred percent solar.”

“Men are easier to come by than solar panels,” Shelby said.

Mortimer pushed away from the table and burped. “I’d like to get those supplies now. And a room for the night if you have one.”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

Mortimer could get used to being a Platinum member.

The Joey’s store was pitiful compared to the one in Spring City, but Mortimer was still able to purchase a number of useful items. He wished he had access to all of his supplies back in his cave.

He made an even trade for clothing. The suit and wingtips for jeans, a red flannel shirt, boxers and sweat socks. He bought a pair of black Timberland hiking boots with minimal scuffing and a khaki baseball cap with the word MAXFLI stitched on the front in navy blue. A gray overcoat with mismatched buttons.

The weapons selection was poor but nonetheless expensive. A.357 magnum revolver tempted him but was simply too expensive. He settled on a short double-barreled shotgun, twelve-gauge, and a half-dozen buckshot shells.

Assorted foodstuffs, a silver Zippo lighter with fluid, a compass that had clearly been a child’s toy but worked, an extra pair of socks, a unopened bottle of Bayer aspirin, a bowie knife, a large terry cloth towel, fishing line and a small set of hooks, a tin cup, a pot and a fork. It all fit into a cheap Nike tote bag.

Total cost including a room for the night: 448 Armageddon dollars. He planned to use the rest of the credit for a big meal and many drinks in the bar that night. In the morning, he’d hit the road again.

He let Shelby lead him out of the Joey’s store in the church basement.

“Come this way,” Shelby said. “And I can show you where your room is, up a different set of stairs. We knocked through to the building next door. Don’t mind the men on the bicycles.”

A familiar sight, like the men in Spring City, leaning heavily on the handlebars, pumping legs and sweating and going nowhere. Mortimer wondered how many of them Bobby and Floyd had caught “trespassing.” How long would they have to ride those stationary bikes until they’d worked off their sentences? Until replacements arrived? It all seemed too close to slavery. Had things really devolved to such a state? Maybe Mortimer was thinking about it all wrong. At least those men on the bikes had a place to sleep. Three square meals a day. Starving men can’t pedal.

Mortimer couldn’t quite convince himself.

“Mort!” A hoarse voice. “Mort, holy shit, it is you!” The voice growing stronger. “Over here! It’s me!”

Mortimer looked up, met the eyes of the man on the far bicycle, the golden hair, the extravagant mustache. “Bill?” He rushed forward, a huge grin splitting his face. He patted the cowboy on the back, barely restraining an urge to hug him. “I thought the cannibals got you.”

“They almost did,” Bill said. “Listen, can you do me a big favor?”

“Sure. What?”

“Could you get me off this goddamn bicycle?”