Then the sight that he had been expecting and dreading: more Xombies in front of him, trying to cut him off-half a dozen jittering blue monstrosities coming over the crest of the hill.
But Sal had prepared an exit strategy. Riding straight at them, he cut right up a cobblestone alleyway-and found himself on an even steeper hill. Oh, man! It had looked so good on paper! As he gunned forward, standing on his pedals, he barely had time to react as a small Xombie with only half a head lunged out of a driveway at him. Oh no you don't! Swerving hard to avoid its grasp, boosted by a screaming rush of adrenaline, Sal darted willy-nilly between houses and yards, jumping his bike up and down curbs and porch steps as the grotesque thing skittered close behind.
Suddenly he was cornered. It was going to get him; he had no choice. A veteran trespasser, Sal had been in similar circumstances before, chased not by Xombies but by vicious dogs or irate homeowners, and in his everyday life had taken to carrying a can of pepper spray when he went riding on private property. He didn't have his trusty spray can now, but Phil Tran had smuggled him something even better.
Don't use it unless you absolutely have to, Phil had whispered, slipping the cloth-wrapped package into Sal's coat pocket. The sound will give you away, so it's only to be used as a last resort. It might buy you a couple of extra seconds.
It was Lieutenant Tran's personal sidearm: a Navy-issue.45-caliber automatic pistol, loaded for bear with explosive dumdum bullets. Don't forget to release the safety, Tran had added. And don't shoot your own foot off.
I won't, Sal had said. Thanks, man.
As the creature's flailing blue hand caught the back of Sal's jacket, yanking him up short, he twisted around and rammed the gun into the center of its chest. The revolting, half-faced thing pushed right back against the muzzle, heedless, headless, its cratered skull healed over and smoothly misshapen as some abstract Modernist sculpture, with a dirty blond pigtail on one side. A weird tentacle of raw flesh lashed out of its open gullet at him.
BANG! Having never fired a gun in his life, Sal wasn't quite prepared for the recoil, which sent a painful shock up his whole arm. The force of the concussion knocked him and the Xombie apart, blasting a fist-sized hole through the creature and bowling it backward to the ground. Without waiting to see if it would rise again-he knew it would-Sal shot it again, then unloaded on the next nearest attackers before leaping his bike into motion.
All of a sudden another loud bang rang out-a string of echoing bangs, rattling the house windows and shaking the ground. Not gunshots, but explosions. A fast sequence of blasts, powerful as thunderclaps, coming from over the hill-from the direction of Benefit Street. Whoa, Sal thought, feeling that he had triggered the explosions somehow, that something was answering his shots.
No time to think about it. The pursuing Xombies froze in their tracks to listen, bodies cocked like alert dogs, and Sal didn't waste the opportunity. In an instant, he was through the alley and over the hump, turning right onto the next street and blazing downhill with the wind cooling his sweat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GANO STREET
Q: What makes them look so bad? A: Well, the grisly complexion is because their bodies have been deprived of oxygen. They're cyanotic. That's a precondition for Maenad infection-it can't work in the presence of oxygen, which is why Xombies must strangle or otherwise suffocate their victims. We think that's part of why they behave as they do, because their brains are damaged from lack of oxygen in the few minutes prior to the disease taking over. After that, nothing can hurt them, but whatever brain function they lose in those first minutes is critical.
Q: Then how did living women become infected in the first place? A: That's the big mystery. Tests show that most women's hemoglobin has a far greater susceptibility to Agent X infiltration than men's, which means the disease has been spreading longer, perhaps building up in their systems until it reached a kind of critical mass. But why the disease should have become virulent all at once, worldwide, is something we don't understand. It may be connected to the lunar cycle, or it might suggest that it was deliberate, like a timer going off. Q: Are you suggesting it was an act of terrorism? A: Anything's possible. One of the worst tragedies of this thing is how every female, whether infected or not, was immediately declared a menace-we'll never know how many millions of them were needlessly quarantined, driven from their homes, or killed outright. In this way, we exacerbated the Xombie crisis far beyond the problem of the plague itself, which could not destroy us as long as there was one immune female somewhere out there-and there may have been many. In condemning them all, we abetted our own extinction.
Q: What do you say to those who think it was God's judgment? A: I'd say God acts in mysterious ways. -The Maenad Project "Mr. Kranuski."
"Mr. Coombs."
"To what do we owe the honor of this visit?"
"Cut the bullshit. You know as well as I do. Where are the spare command keys?"
"They've been missing since Fred Cowper was in charge."
"Why don't you ask him?" Langhorne said brightly.
Kranuski ignored her. "Don't bullshit me. I know somebody's been using those keys to gain access to restricted areas of the boat and tamper with the system. That's mutiny, sabotage. Do you still have any honor left? Is that what you want? To scuttle the boat? Kill us all?"
"Of course not," said Coombs, offended. "I have no idea who could be doing that. How could I? It's not like I had time to talk to anyone before you locked us in here."
Rich Kranuski said, "I knew you were incompetent, but I never thought you'd stoop to something like this out of sheer spite. I am not your enemy, Harvey. I know I fucked up at Thule, but now I'm just trying to preserve what few military regulations still apply, and which we are both duty-bound to observe. This is still a Navy vessel."
"I understand that."
"Then don't you understand that whoever's fucking around with the safety sensors is fucking with your sworn mission as a Navy officer? False alarms in the coolant valves are not my idea of a joke."
Langhorne piped in. "Tell it to Cowper."
"Shut the hell up."
"Oooh, tough guy. Mister macho. I heard how you treat little girls."
"Shut up, or you're gonna make me shut you up."
"Oh no, am I in for a spanking?"
"I think you better hear her out, Rich," said Coombs,
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Ask her."
"Ask her what?" He turned to Langhorne. "What is it you're supposed to know?"
Alice Langhorne didn't seem to be listening, suddenly more absorbed in pouring herself a cup of coffee and stirring in a packet of sweetener.
"I'm waiting, Doctor. And if you don't wipe that smug expression off your face, I'll do it for you."
Taking a sip, she said, "Give me a break. Of the three useless captains on this ship, you're the worst."
"What are you talking about, three captains? I don't have time for this."
"I'm saying, genius, that with Coombs under arrest, some of the men are taking their orders from another captain, and it's not you."
"What the hell are you-are you insane or something? Fred Cowper's long gone, and you know it. We saw the last of him up around the Arctic Circle."
"He's not gone. The orders you gave to dispose of his head were never followed-it didn't get dumped down the TDU. It's still here."
"Oh, really? Where? Hidden in the fruit bin?"
"It was in a locker on the third deck until we sent out the shore party. It disappeared after that, and I thought maybe my Xombies had taken it. But now I don't think so. I believe Fred Cowper's still on board."
"Bullshit! I can't listen to any more of this." To Coombs, he said, "I suppose you're going to stand there and swear to me she's telling the truth."
"I have no idea. But I will tell you what you already know, that there have been some strange things happening on board. You've heard the chatter about the boat being haunted, and it's not just t
he kids doing the talking."
"That's just sailor superstition. Everybody's on edge. It doesn't mean there's a fucking head rolling around loose."
"You're probably right. I don't know."
Kranuski steadied himself. "You know, according to strict ship's protocol, I am authorized to use lethal force if it is necessary to maintain operational integrity. I could execute you both, right here, right now. And I would… except that it would only create a worse hazard for me to deal with. I know you both know that-you know I don't dare kill you. Not with a gun. But fortunately there's another way of handling traitors and saboteurs on this boat. You're familiar with the trash-disposal unit. It's the way I thought we got rid of Fred Cowper, and if I find out you're lying to me, it's the way we're going to dispose of you."
Langhorne waited until he was finished, her face flushing bright red, then broke into laughter. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "I have a weakness for dumb jokes."
One by one, the boys were being taken-grabbed off their bikes like cattle culled from a herd. Kyle counted down the sounds of crashing bicycles as each one fell: fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve-two-thirds of the guys who had started out were gone. But he was numb to it, in shock from the loss of his brother. If this went on much longer, there wouldn't be anybody left to meet Sal. If Sal was even still alive. Their mission was a joke, a ruse to get rid of them, just as Russell had said. A plot cooked up by Kranuski and Webb and the rest of the Navy men to conserve the food supply. To save a few pounds of grits.
Far behind them, he heard the crack of a gunshot. Before the sound could fully register, there followed a series of booms like Fourth of July fireworks. In the distance, a plume of black smoke rose into the sky.
"Holy shit," said Freddy, gasping for breath. "What's that?"
"I don't know," Kyle said. "Keep pedaling."
"Sounds like a war."
"Don't matter what it is; it's way the hell back there."
"Maybe it's a rescue party from the sub!"
"Then they in a world of shit like we are. Ain't no rescue party. Shut up and keep moving-we're almost there."
The street had leveled off, and the end was in sight: They were coming to a T-intersection that Kyle supposed must be Gano Street. He expected to see a highway underpass-a clear route back to the waterfront. But when they got there, there was no underpass, just more houses, and the street sign said GOVERNOR.
Where the hell are we?
The boys were piling up behind him, faces agog with panic, wondering why he was hesitating. "Don't stop!" they shouted, blue death clawing at their backs. Kyle didn't know what to do-he couldn't very well tell them they were lost. It was that damn Sal DeLuca's fault!
"Over there!" Freddy cried in his ear, pointing up the street.
There it was: another sign for Transit Street, half a block over. So they hadn't yet reached the end after all. Transit continued on after Governor. Kyle gratefully kicked off, relinquishing his lead as other bikes swept past. Most of them probably knew this part of town better than he did anyway. He was suddenly shaking so hard he could barely grip the handlebars.
Now the street was wider, beginning to dip downhill. The twelve remaining boys had all caught up with each other and were riding clumped together like a school of bait fish. Nobody wanted to be on the outside. Another block down, and they could see water-a river or an arm of the bay-bordered by green fields.
"That has to be the Seekonk," Todd called. "Which means Gano Street is straight ahead!"
With this news there was no stopping them. Legs spinning, hearts surging with wild hope, the pack spread out a little, swarming downhill as fast as they could, faster than even Xombies could run. As speed and momentum increased, so did their sense of power: Boys carrying crowbars, hammers, and makeshift lances took the lead, jousting down the few Xombies that blocked their path, clearing the road.
At the bottom lay Gano Street. A few blocks to the right was the passage to India Point Park-and the bay. All they had to do now was zip through there before the Xombies got wind of them. Then they would be back on the waterfront, fenced off from the rest of the city, within spitting distance of the rafts. Practically home free.
It was all just as Sal had said… but where was he?
Kyle slowed at the bottom of the hill, brakes squeaking.
"What are you doing, man?" said Freddy, wobbling up short beside him. "We gotta go!"
"You go ahead," said Kyle. "I'm gonna wait a few minutes."
Freddy was dumbfounded. "Wait? Wait for what?"
"In case Sal shows up."
"Sal? Are you kidding, bro? He's dead, come on!"
"No doubt. You guys go-go! I'll come in a couple minutes."
"Don't be stupid, man," said Todd Holmes. He was a slight but wiry boy, with a faint mustache and ropy blond dreadlocks. He had learned tattooing while in juvie for felony tagging (he was the infamous TH, whose initials graced every corner of Providence), and his forearms were covered with bluish black runes. Todd was the boat's artist-in-residence and, probably because he didn't speak much, was something of a guru among the nubs. "Once we go under that bridge, it's gonna bring all those things down after us. Nobody else is gonna be able to get through there. That's why we all have to go together, now."
"That's why you have to go! So go! Get the fuck out of here!"
"Why are you doin' this, man?" Todd said softly, urgently. "Because of Russell?"
"Shut up."
"I understand, man; he was like a brother to me, too…"
"Shut up."
"If he wants to stay, leave him," said Derrick Agostino, wild-eyed with fear. "Sorry, man, but we can't waste any more time."
"I didn't ask you to," said Kyle.
Freddy said, "But he's just-"
"Leave him! We gotta go, do you get it?" Derrick pointed down the street. "Dumb shit, look!"
"Oh my God."
All of a sudden their escape route was rotten with Xombies, hordes of blue figures pouring down the highway on-ramp and out of the side streets.
"Too late," said Todd, "they've seen us. What do we do now?"
"Whatever we're gonna do, just do it," said Derrick. "Here they come."
Kyle looked up the hill. More Xombies were coming down Transit Street, a whole pack of raving "blue meanies." That was a name some of the boys had picked up on the ship because it softened the terror. But nothing could disguise the awfulness of seeing his own brother skittering among them. No, Russell. He grieved. Not you, man. "We gotta do what Sal was trying to do," Kyle croaked, forcing himself to look away. "Lead 'em off, then ditch them and circle back around. Come on."
The lowest concentration of Xombies looked to be in the open fields right across the road, so Kyle went that way, cutting across the parking lot of a Dunkin' Donuts. The other boys followed eagerly, grateful just to be moving. Riding as hard as their weakened conditions allowed, they raced for green lawns. A Xombie in their path was caught up in a gauntlet of vengeful blows, clubbed down and quickly pulverized, its head impatiently struck from its body and batted away like a polo ball. They knew the drill now: Get them before they got you. Don't flinch. Team-work. Leaving the broken thing flailing in their wake like a defective toy, they left the pavement for soft grass.
They were on an athletic field, with basketball courts and a baseball diamond, bisected by a dirt track. A high, mowed berm rose along the edge of the field, to prevent balls from escaping into the surrounding marsh, and tall brush bordered the sides. Just up the shore was an ancient railroad drawbridge, an overgrown, rusty colossus jutting permanently into the sky.
They took down another Xombie on the grass-it was getting easier. But there was also a lot of room here to maneuver, to overwhelm with force, and Kyle knew that unless there was also a way out, these same advantages would soon favor the Xombies. The boys were already very tired and could only ride in circles for so long. In a few minutes, it was going to be a hellish playground, the ultimate game of tag.
The others shook their heads. Todd asked, "Don't you?"
"I never been here before."
"Well, what the-" Before Todd could register his incredulity, a whoop rose up from far in the rear. All of them turned in amazement.
It was Sal DeLuca. Riding his bike like a daredevil, Sal was flying, thrusting all out down the hill, whipping between Xombies right and left. The creatures hardly had time to see him before he shot past. As he reached the bottom, momentum peaking, he barreled toward a converging mass of them in the donut-shop parking lot. It looked hopeless for him, his way blocked. Look out, man! Kyle thought, scalp prickling.
Sal didn't stop; he charged right into them at top speed. A dozen maniacal blue devils leaped to tackle him, but suddenly Sal hit a beveled parking bumper, bouncing his bike straight up and over as the Xombies violently cracked heads below.
Now he was away and clear, cruising onto the grass as if just having broken the victory tape, his face flushed with relief and exertion. But as he drew near, his expression flattened with concern.
"Where is everybody?" he demanded, pulling up alongside.
"They dead," said Kyle. "Where you been?"
"Dead, are you kidding? How?"
"Same way we gonna be if we don't do something quick." A Xombie approached, and the bigger boys clubbed it down. "How do we get out of here, dammit?"
"Under the highway!" Sal said.
"That road is closed-look!" Xombies were now covering Gano Street from one end to the other, swarming like enraged ants.
"Oh. Shit…" Blanching at the sight, Sal fumbled out his map. He had to stop reading as it became necessary to flee.
Riding for their lives, Kyle said, "Well?"
"I don't know! The only way is to go under the highway to India Point!"
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