That's it, isn't it, Dad? We're all going to die.
Everybody dies sometime, Sal. And if they're lucky, they stay dead.
I bet they're planning on running out on us. The white hats. They know this place is going to turn into some kind of feeding frenzy, and they're not gonna want to stick around and wait for it to happen. They're taking that sub and all their people and guns and all the food and-
Sal, stop!-it's no use.
Well, are we just gonna sit here and let it happen?
You saw what they did to Bob Martino. As long as they needed us to work, we had some bargaining leverage… or thought we did. But now the job is done; we're disposable. I don't expect we'll see or hear from management ever again. We'll be lucky to see daylight ever again.
Well, we have to fight back!
How? Fight who? We're locked in, son, and I'm not expecting any more lawn parties in the near future. Best we can hope for now is that they all pull out and leave us in peace. Then we can use the tools we've got and break out of here-survive as best we can. It's not much of a hope, but it's better than nothing.
Why not bust out now and fight them?
With Beau Reynolds and his people guarding the gate? We'd get about two feet before they mowed us down.
What about Uncle Sammy? He wouldn't shoot us.
Your uncle can't help us, Sal. He's out there, and we're in here, end of story.
So that's it, then. That's the plan? Just let them abandon us.
Unless you can think of something better. I'm afraid I'm shit out of ideas. I tried, Sal. I'm really sorry.
It's fine, it's okay, Pop-you did great. Don't worry. Listen, I gotta head over to the john, maybe see how the guys are doing. I'll be back before lights-out.
Sal left their small, curtained space and walked across the concrete floor, his steps echoing in the cavernous assembly building. Nestled among gigantic submarine components was a maze of crisscrossed tarps and drying laundry, damp sheets glowing with light and the flicker of cookstoves-a hobo jungle beneath a soaring ceiling of I-beams and corrugated steel.
As he traversed the alleys and flaps of this indoor bazaar, Sal thought, It looks like a refugee camp. And then: You're a refugee, stupid-it is a refugee camp.
People paid no attention as he intruded briefly on their private spaces, even stepping over their legs or belongings as he went. Whatever modesty had not been expunged by a month in these close quarters was now stone dead from despair, killed along with Bob Martino.
Men and boys sat staring into space or either wept or consoled the weeping. This place, which had up to now been a clamorous hive of industry, was now hushed as a cathedral during funeral services. Instead of studying, as the boys had been accustomed to doing since they first arrived here on New Year's Eve, they were feeding sheaves of submarine blueprints and technical manuals into pyres, burning their home-work. Their fathers, grandfathers, uncles, older brothers-all dedicated employees of the company-did nothing to stop them. Black flakes floated down like snow.
They think they're already dead, Sal thought.
As he waited his turn to take a leak, he noticed he was standing beside the one person likely to help him take his mind off all this crap: Tyrell Banks.
Yo, Tyrell, he said. How you doing, man?
It's all good, Sal. Scored me my cup of Jonestown Kool-Aid-gonna be rockin' that Grape Ape like a motherfucker. Better than drag-assin' around here waiting for the fucked-up Donner Party shit that's gonna go down.
Yeah, it sucks.
Phew, you the king of understatement tonight, Sal-next you be tellin' me that Armageddon is bogus, go ahead.
No, seriously, man, I was thinking we gotta do something to snap everybody out of this. I'm not ready to lie down and die.
What you got in mind, man? Hey, I know! You into that extreme sports shit-why don't you hook us up with a little postapocalyptic BMX exhibition? Fuckin' Agent X Games.
Tyrell was joking, and Sal laughed along, but something in the corner caught his eye: a rack of granny bikes used for light deliveries around the plant.
Why not?
It was time to go ashore. Officers Phil Tran, Dan Robles, and Alton Webb organized them into two teams, twenty boys to a team, and assigned each team a raft-a large, semirigid inflatable boat. The rafts were designed to carry as many as forty men apiece, plenty of room for the loot they were expected to bring back. The boys would have to paddle out, but lines would connect the rafts to the submarine so that they could be quickly retrieved.
"There's no time for speeches," Lieutenant Tran said brusquely, ushering them aboard.
Out of Webb's earshot, Robles pulled Sal DeLuca aside, saying softly, "Bring them back in one piece."
"Yes, sir."
Tran said, "We know you, Sal-you're the smartest kid we have. I shouldn't even be sending you, but somebody's gotta have their shit together out there. I'm sorry."
Sal's teeth chattered with excitement. "That's okay. I want to go."
"I know." Tran sighed. He gripped the boy's shoulder as if reluctant to let go, then pushed him away. "Your dad would have been proud of you. Don't waste any time, all right? In and out."
Sal was already gone, clambering aboard the boat to join all the other yellow life vests. Looks like a damn summer camp, Tran thought furiously. Then they were pushing off with their paddles, awkwardly scudding away. "Watch the time!" he shouted after.
"Bon voyage, kiddies," Webb said smugly, paying out line.
Phil Tran could only shake his head, too angry to speak. The asshole hadn't even let them take a radio or a gun. "Mission-essential, too valuable to risk," he had said. Unlike those kids' lives? You just better hope they come back, Tran thought. Otherwise, we are going to have a serious problem, Webb. You and your bogus captain.
At his shoulder, Dan Robles said, "It's okay, Phil. We've done everything we can for them. We just have to trust in God."
Tran nodded, red-eyed. "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition," he said.
CHAPTER NINE
NUBS
Cut 'em loose-that was Lieutenant Alton Webb's opinion of those kids and all their would-be adult benefactors… including a few fellow officers he could think of.
Civilian refugees didn't belong on the boat. He for one had been furious to learn that Harvey Coombs ever let them aboard. Webb witnessed firsthand the nightmare that had been unleashed belowdecks as a direct result of Fred Cowper's treachery, and neither he nor any other man who had lost friends and fellow officers in that fight could think of these people as anything other than hijackers. And then to let that filthy traitor declare himself acting commander while Coombs was down, filling the control section with armed thugs like Gus DeLuca and Ed Albemarle, forcing good NavSea officers like Rich Kranuski to kiss his ass-it was just incomprehensible.
Then there were the collaborators: Dan Robles, Philip Tran, at least a dozen others. Webb could think of a few choice things he'd like to do to them. If they hadn't lined up behind Cowper instead of Kranuski, the takeover wouldn't have been possible in the first place. Couldn't they see that even if that retired son of a bitch was the most senior officer on board, he was no better than a terrorist? His actions had cost the lives of a dozen crewmen and two Marines, not to mention fatally compromising the mission. Better the boat should have been scuttled than put him in charge. By the time Coombs recovered and arrested the old coot, it was too late. The damage had been done.
Webb could still hear the old man's infuriating Rhode Island accent, so folksy and misleading: We're gonna have to let 'em below soona or later. Might as well be soona.
He should have killed the man himself, that first night, but like everyone else, Webb was in shock, clinging for dear life to obsolete notions of military discipline. Focusing on the task at hand. Helping fish those two injured Marines out of the water and carrying them below, where they were laid out on the wardroom table. He thought they were more stunned than anything, having been knocked overboard when Cow
per crashed a huge truck into the brow, plunging the whole gangway into the water. But when Corpsman Lennox opened their clothes to check their vitals, it was instantly clear that something was wrong. This man's not breathing, Doc said urgently, and began administering CPR. Those were the last words Webb ever heard out of Pete Lennox. Then the shooting began topside, and all available hands were ordered to assist up there.
The sight that greeted him on deck was something beyond his wildest nightmares:
There was a riot. Not on the boat itself, but just above it on the wharf. A thousand murderous hooligans fighting, choking, whacking at each other with hammers. Hundreds of teenage boys were fleeing the melee, swarming over the edge of the quay and dropping from the pier to the dock below, where armed Navy crewmen were helping them cross a plank to the boat's stern. Helping them! Several officers appeared to be shooting into the crowd, and it took Webb a second to realize there were Xombies in the mix.
Holy God, he thought, a jet of ice water freezing his guts. There they are.
They were the first Xombies he or any of the crew had ever seen, having been sheltered from the plague in their windowless steel cocoon all these weeks. It was a shock actually to be in the presence of the blue devils they had heard so much about: unstoppable, ghoulish berserkers, the women worse than the men. He had to admire the way the rebellious shipyard workers were fending them off with nothing more than hammers and crowbars, holding the line even as skull-cracked creatures bounced back for more. The crew's bullets were not much better-Webb overheard one frustrated officer, popping a spent clip, mutter, Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down.
What the hell's going on up here? he demanded of the OOD, Tim Shaye.
Captain's orders! We're to assist in boarding the refugees! The man was sweating and half-crazed.
Are you kidding me? Webb couldn't believe Coombs could be so stupid as to give in to these people's extortion. What are we supposed to do with them? They're not coming below!
I don't know, you'll have to ask the skipper. Shaye's radio squawked the order to cast off. Excuse me, I have to tend the lines.
Incredibly, the boat managed to get under way and clear of the submarine pen without losing a single crewman. This miracle was accomplished by Webb's simple expedient of ordering the crew below and shutting the hatch, letting the massed refugees fend for themselves topside. No telling how many of them were lost before the last Xombie was finally expelled, but of the hundreds remaining, only a handful were adults. The rest were shell-shocked teenage boys… and one girl. Everyone, above and below, thought the worst was over.
That was when the real trouble began.
Webb was in Navigation, conferring with Rich Kranuski and Artie Gunderson about the best offshore anchorage, when the general alarm sounded.
Armed detail to the mess! someone shouted over the 1MC. Xombies on board!
What now? Gunderson groaned, and was suddenly knocked out of his seat by a hurtling blue body. It was the machinist's mate, Donald Selby, all wild hair and grinning bared teeth. Tackling Artie against the console, Selby forced his gaping wet maw on him, covering the other man's mouth and bending his neck so far backward it cracked, then in one grotesque slurp seemed to suck the very life from Gunderson's wilting corpse.
As Webb and Kranusky fought to pull the men apart, Alton saw Doc Lennox attacking Chip Stanaman in the control center. Chip's family had welcomed Webb into their home one Christmas when he was on break from nuclear power school, and still sent him cards every year with pictures of the kids. Fuck! Webb bellowed, unable to break Selby's grip-Gunderson already looked as dead and purple-faced as his attacker, eyes bloodshot and hugely dilated. Webb was on the verge of losing it. He was not a tremendously social guy, but these were his poker buddies, his friends, the only family he knew, and he was failing them.
Forget him! Kranuski barked. Damage control's not reporting any trouble amidships-we can still contain it right here! I need you to guard that hatch and make sure nothing gets aft! As Webb obeyed, Rich jumped for the emergency intercom, and said, Attention all hands. This is the XO: Evacuate CCSM and secure forward bulkhead. Repeat: All decks, secure forward bulkhead.
Things abruptly settled; the eye of the storm. The command section, which had been a bedlam of shouts and violent scuffles, was now silent. As Kranuski finished what he was doing and leaped for the aft hatch, Gunderson and Selby jerked upright like two fright puppets, lunging for him. It was close. With an assist from Webb, Rich cleared the heavy watertight door just as several more demonic faces came bounding up the companionway at his heels.
The hatch clanged shut with the finality of a tomb.
Game over, Alton Webb thought. If the boat's entire command-and-control section was infested with these things, and at least a dozen vital crewmen were down, including the captain, then they were lost. They had already been desperately shorthanded, with barely a third their normal crew complement; now they not only had to rig for auxiliary control and stabilize the boat but fight Xombies in the bargain. It was physically impossible.
Executive Officer Kranuski was not ready to give up. He had assumed the mantle of acting captain and was busily fielding situation reports. For want of anything better to do, Webb went along with it, pretending that Kranuski knew what he was doing even though the man had never commanded a sub in his life. At least his initial hunch had been right: Just about everything aft of the forward bulkhead appeared to be clear of Xombies. This was confirmed by the two other bridge officers who survived, Lieutenants Dan Robles and Phil Tran, who had already posted a lookout topside and transferred helm control to the aft maneuvering panel. But without some further miracle, they were just treading water until the ebb tide stranded them in the mud. Without proper soundings, they couldn't even drop anchor; its chain would swing them around the rocks and shoals like an immense wrecking ball.
It was Robles who made the suggestion, What about Fred Cowper?
What about him?
We have to recruit him, and anybody else he's got up there who can help.
That asshole's the cause of all this!
He's also got more experience than anybody else on board.
That's what makes him so dangerous! Forget it-we have enough on our hands without entrusting the boat to a guy who just threatened to sink it.
Okay, he's a ruthless old bastard, but we can probably trust him to pull his own fat out of the fire. You can always hang him later. Right now we need every available hand.
But what about that girl he's got with him?
You can hang her, too.
"Aim for that dock there," Sal said, consulting his printed-out map.
"What do you think we're doing?" Kyle Hancock said. "It's the current; it's wicked."
"Well, paddle harder-it's going to take us underneath the hurricane barrier."
"No shit."
"Paddle! Paddle!"
The paddlers paddled, putting their shoulders into it, trying to find a rhythm. Sal watched the great, gray barrier loom above them, its open gates like massive steel jaws and the river beyond a yawning gullet, eager to swallow them whole. It was so shallow in there at low tide that Xombies could wade right up and grab them at will. "All together!" he shouted. "Stroke, stroke, stroke…"
Then they were clearing the worst of the current, moving into calmer eddies near shore. "Okay, we're good, we're gonna make it," Sal said, heart still racing. "Don't stop, we're almost there."
"Shut up," Kyle said. "Damn."
"Yeah, man," agreed Russell. "We don't need you to tell us what to do. We know you're Officer Tran's little bitch, but just try to chill, a'ight? We on it."
Russell and Kyle Hancock were brothers, the only surviving pair of siblings on the ship, and their mutual strength made them de facto rulers of the Big Room. Russell was one year older than Kyle, with a corrected cleft lip and a resulting lisp that made him sound like Mike Tyson. Kids had learned not to rag him about it. His brother Kyle was lighter built, less touchy, wi
th the easy confidence of a born player. As they liked to say, Russell was the muscle, and Kyle was the style. The brothers were not overt troublemakers, they simply used their power to do as little as possible, making needier kids like the Freddies-Freddy Fisk and Freddy Gonzales, or just Freddy F and G, Tweedledum and Tweedledee-do their work for them. Why shouldn't they? There were no extra rations in doing it yourself-the privilege of not starving was reserved for "essential personnel" only. As far as Kyle and Russell were concerned, Sal DeLuca and all the other overworked ship's apprentices were suckers.
"Dude, don't even start," Sal said. "I'm just trying to help us stay alive, okay?"
"We don't need your help-dude."
"Yeah, give it a rest. You ain't no ship's officer."
"No, but I'm responsible for your ass."
"Leave my ass be. And you best watch your own, bike boy."
They all snickered.
Sal shook his head, grinning in spite of himself. This had been going on for months, part of the friction between the ship's apprentices and the "nubs"-nonuseful bodies. Nubs were often the guys who were having the worst time of it, the true orphans, whose adult sponsors-their dads-had been killed, and who could barely hold it together enough to function, their shock and despair manifesting as attitude. He knew Russell's gibes were a response to the helplessness of the situation, a survival mechanism. A thin wedge against panic, which Sal could totally relate to, having lost his own father at Thule. Hey, to laugh was better than to cry… or to scream. Once you started screaming, you might never stop.
The screams came at night, in their sleep.
Now they were below the high dock, fending off its barnacled pilings with their paddles. "Okay, everybody be quiet," Sal said. If there were Xombies up there, they could just jump right into the boats. He tied up to a rusted ladder, and whispered, "I'm just gonna take a look, okay? Nobody move unless I give the all clear."
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