Tales of the Post-Apocralypse: The Tower

By johnnedwill

We had just got across the border when the hover-Corvette lurched to one side and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke began to pour from under the hood. I turned to my lawyer and said, "We're in trouble."

He fumbled with the rear view mirror. I was sure he was trying to get a glimpse up the burqas of the groupies we had rescued from the Texas Taliban, although I didn't want to think why. After all, what pleasures could a sentient plant from another dimension get from ogling forbidden mammalian flesh? He grinned at me. "Nah," he said. "We've lost them. We should be good from here on in."

As if to underscore his wrong assessment of the situation, there was another eruction of gases from the motor. I had visions of being stranded in this Bob-foresaken wasteland, vultures picking at my desiccated flesh. "Like hell we are!" I screamed at him. I scanned the horizon, looking for any signs of civilisation. Rising above the heat haze was a thin, black streak. I pointed towards it. "Head for that," I said, gritting my teeth and trying to keep calm.

Half an hour later, we had made it to what looked like a small slice of middle-Americana. It was as if some tornado had picked up a town, picket fences and all, and deposited it in the middle of the desert. There were clean sidewalks in front of white-washed houses; chromium-trimmed Detroit sharks were parked by celluloid flamingoes; faceless mannequins trimmed their burnt- brown lawns while their plastic wives brought them glasses of lemonade. At the centre of it all was the tower.

"I think we're in Kansas," I muttered.

"I don't like this," whispered my lawyer. "This place is just too ... clean. It's like Celebration all over again."

I pulled up at the side of the road and waved at one of the inhabitants. He strode over. "Hi neighbour. Need any help?" His voice buzzed from a speaker in the middle of his otherwise blank face.

"Sure," I said. "I got some car trouble. Is there a garage round here?"

The mannequin looked the car over - although for all I knew he was ogling our passengers. "Sure. Just down the road," he said and gave us a set of directions that took us further into the town. By this point my lawyer was curled up in his seat, moaning about cartoon rodents. I ignored him and pulled into the garage forecourt.

The mechanic came out and popped the hood. "That'll be expensive pal. I gotta order the parts in."

I shrugged. "Sure. We ain't going nowhere. So, what's with the tower?"

The mechanic fumbled in the engine. "It's a nuclear device. Some say it's going to go off one day and fulfill our destiny."

"You worship a bomb?" I asked him.

"Not really," the mechanic said. "I'm not that devout. It's more a Thanksgiving and Easter sort of thing for me."