A small man sat behind a wire-mesh cage, a little window in front of him, like a bank teller. Sitting on a stool in a corner was a three-hundred-pound black man in army fatigues and a purple fez. He looked grim and dangerous. The M16 machine gun in his arms didn’t help him look any friendlier.

The white-haired man behind the cage wore a thick pair of glasses, a pencil behind his ear. He regarded Mortimer with little interest. “Yes?”

Mortimer cleared his throat. “I’m here to trade.”

The white-haired man yawned. “Buying or selling?”

Mortimer put the Johnnie Walker on the counter. “Selling.”

The man’s eyes slowly widened. “Is that real?”

“Yes.”

“We had someone in here before.” A warning tone in the man’s voice. “He drilled the top and filled the empty bottle with home mash. After we beat him, the mayor sentenced him to a month on the bicycles. I’ll ask you again. Is it real?”

“It’s real,” Mortimer said. “As are the other thirty-five bottles out on my sled.”

“Thirty-five?” The man trembled. “Mister, if you’re telling the truth, you just became the richest man in town.”

“I have other things too.” Mortimer listed the items.

Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead as he copied the list into a little notebook with his pencil. “Can I get your name?”

“Mortimer Tate.”

“I’m Silas Jones, Mr. Tate. And may I say you are a most welcome and valuable customer here at Joey Armageddon’s.”

The tally came to seven thousand Armageddon dollars, and Mortimer took the Emperor’s Suite on the second floor of the brick building attached to the armory. Two rooms, a double bed in each. A bathroom.

Mortimer Tate took his first crap on a working toilet in nine years.

He took a shower. A hot shower. Dried himself with a clean towel. Put on a terry cloth robe. A knock on the door.

It was the clerk, Silas Jones.

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction, Mr. Tate.”

“Completely.”

“I have been authorized to give you this.”

Silas Jones handed him a pink card. It had been laminated. On the front was a mushroom cloud exploding upward into a pair of breasts. On the back were Mortimer’s name and the words Platinum Member.

“What’s this?”

Jones gasped. “What’s this?” He looked surprised. “Why, Mr. Tate, this is one of the most sought-after status symbols of the new world. This is a Joey Armageddon’s Platinum membership. It entitles you to special treatment at any of our fine locations.”

“How many locations is that?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Jones. “Last count was something like twenty. I think.”

“What kind of special treatment?”

“Alas, I don’t know that either, since I myself have not been fortunate enough to achieve Platinum membership.”

Uh-huh.

Buffalo Bill emerged from one of the bedrooms. He wore only his boots, his hat and a towel. “Jesus H. Christ, it’s like Bucking-ham fucking Palace.” Bill was middling drunk, having worked halfway through a complimentary bottle of Freddy’s Piss Vinegar Vodka. (Bill had asked for a bottle of Major Dundee’s Slow-Motion Gin, but the most recent shipment was rumored to have been hijacked by Red Stripes.)

Bill slung an arm around Mortimer’s shoulders. “I saved this motherfucker’s life. Best thing I ever did.” He slurped vodka, gagged, and it trickled down his chin.

Silas Jones cleared his throat. “Quite.”

Bill sniffed one of his own armpits. “Damn, I stink. Better shower.” He stumbled into the bathroom.

“Mr. Tate, if I may offer a suggestion,” Jones said. “You are now in possession of a staggering number of Armageddon dollars. You’ll probably want to take steps to secure their…uh…security.”

“Is there an open bank in town?”

“The First Armageddon Bank of Spring City is an authorized subsidiary of Joey Armageddon’s Sassy A-Go-Go. I happen to be the head teller.”

“Thanks. Sign me up. Where can I get some food?”

“The kitchen downstairs at Joey Armageddon’s will be open in an hour.”

“I’d like some new clothes.”

“The selection downstairs in the trading post is top notch, and Joey Armageddon’s has a tailor on call. I can send a runner for him if you need alterations.”

“So is Joey Armageddon’s the only store in the world or what?”

“Mr. Tate, with all due modesty, I think you’ll come to find that Joey Armageddon’s is the world.”

Mortimer left Buffalo Bill snoring in the Emperor’s Suite and smelling like Dial soap.

The Emperor’s Suite had come with Dial soap and Pantene shampoo and a small tube of Aim toothpaste. The suite was normally one hundred Armageddon dollars a night. For Platinum members it was only sixty.

Mortimer trudged the ten blocks from the armory to his old neighborhood. He wanted to find his old house before nightfall. A few people passed him on the street. Nobody said hello, but nobody seemed terrified either.

Some houses looked perfectly normal. Others were clearly abandoned, and a few had been burned down to the foundation. But there was something else. Mortimer couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He stood in the middle of the street, turned three hundred and sixty degrees trying to figure it out.

No cars. None driving, none parked in the driveways or along the streets. The gas might have gone stale, but where did the cars go?

He kept walking.

He turned onto his street, spotted his house about halfway down. It came into focus as he trudged closer. The windows were dark, but so were all the windows along the street. No power. His house looked dirty and unpainted. The shrubs grown long and wild. It hadn’t been such a bad house, three bedrooms, two baths, a fireplace. Now the gutters hung loose at one end. He stood watching the house for ten minutes but didn’t see or hear any signs of life.

He climbed the three steps to the front porch. The wood creaked under his boots. Someone had painted graffiti on the front door, a blue circle with a triangle of three dots inside. Some gang?

Concern for Anne suddenly welled up inside him. What had happened to her? Did she make it okay when the world went crazy?

He knocked on the door. It felt strange, even after all this time, to knock before he entered his own home. He pushed the door open and entered.

The living room was nearly barren, a sofa with stuffing oozing out of the cushions and a beanbag. He stood there trying to remember the good times with Anne, long nights in front of a cozy fire. Mortimer’s eyes grew misty as the past formed a picture in his mind.

The old screaming woman with the frying pan in her hand broke the spell.

“Whoa!” Mortimer flinched, backed away.

She was wild eyed, gray hair exploding in all directions. She rushed at Mortimer, the frying pan swinging savagely. Mortimer threw up his arms, tried to duck away. A glancing blow on the tip of his elbow shot hot pain up his arm.

“Lady, please. Jesus!” Mortimer attempted flight, tripped backward over the beanbag.

The old lady loomed over him, mouth a feral, toothless grimace, ragged dress billowing around her like the tattered cape of some obsolete superhero. “My house. The place was empty, so I puts my mark on the door. Them’s the rules.” She lifted the pan over her head for a killer blow.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He reached into his pocket, came out with a handful of coins and tossed them at the old woman’s feet. “Here, take them.”

She stepped back, blinked at the glittering coins on the floor. “Are those…?” She knelt, picked one up and held it in the light. “It is. Armageddon dollars!” She scooped them into her trembling hands. “Thank you. Oh, my God. Thank you.”

Her head came up suddenly and she met Mortimer’s gaze, one eye half-milky with cataracts. “Wait a minute. I know what this is about.”