Apocalypticon x-2

by Walter Greatshell

  "Oh… sure. Definitely."

  Still dumbfounded, Freddy asked, "But can't it get at you? Their skins, I mean? Aren't you scared of it touching you? Hurting you somehow?"

  "It wants to-that's what holds 'em on so tight. That, and some staples. But we figured out that by using pelts from different Harpies it causes friction between 'em, and the aversion keeps 'em on their own little territories, like countries on a map. That's what we got goin' here on each of us: a little model of detente."

  It did look like a map. A hairy, pulsating relief map. "But how can you stand it touching you?" Kyle asked.

  "Oh, it don't touch us, trust me. We're all wearing protective duds underneath this. You gotta: Once it latches on, it's very hard to remove unless you tempt it off with bare skin, which is why we been makin' you boys keep your distance. Don't get in reach of them hands, neither. Harpy hide is tricky stuff. It can be sticky or slippery, depending, and you cain't never forget that it wants to get at you. Because it surely won't."

  "Then how do you ever get it off again?"

  "Oxygen. Pure oxygen neutralizes Agent X-puts the meat right to sleep."

  Freddy piped up. "Carbon monoxide works, too."

  The man looked at him strangely, said, "That's true, but that'd also put us to sleep. Forever."

  The truck left the densest concentration of Xombies, and the ride became smoother. The only sounds now were the engine and the slash of foliage against the sides. They lurched left, turning sharply up a marshy path and trundling over a downed chain-link fence. Bumping over a curb, they were suddenly back in civilization, the parking lot of a small shopping center. EASTSIDE MARKET said the anchor store, and adjoining it were a chain video outlet and a drive-thru bank. Across the parking lot stood a large pharmacy.

  The leader announced, "Last stop! Ever'body off the bus." When the boys started to get up, he said, "Not you. You boys need to stay down, out of sight."

  Men had been hard at work here already. Every shopping cart in the place was lined up outside the market, fifty or more, all laden with groceries. There were also rolling pallets covered with larger bulk items: huge bags of rice, beans, flour, sugar, and hand trucks stacked with more cases of goods. They had cleaned the place out. A second duck boat was parked across the lot, its crew busily raiding the drugstore.

  "Daaamn," whispered Kyle. "They got a major operation goin' here."

  "Yeah," said Sal.

  "If they can walk around out in the open, what they need all this food for? And where they takin' this stuff? They got enough here for an army."

  "I think you answered your own question."

  The leader shouted, "All right, load 'em up."

  The truck's fleshy canopy was pulled back, and a small crane was deployed, winching the goods up onto the deck. Not everything would fit. There would obviously have to be several more trips. The men didn't seem to be in any hurry. It took half an hour just to stow this one load and make sure its weight was distributed evenly.

  Though it appeared that they had dodged the main body of Xombies, every now and then a straggler or two wandered in, sensing the boys and running across the parking lot. The first time this happened, they flipped out, pointing and shouting hysterically: Ohmygodlookout! By the third time, they just watched mesmerized as the terrifying fiends out of their worst nightmares, unkillable demons that had terrorized them and destroyed the world, were methodically harpooned and dragged by an electric reel to the back of the vehicle, where a bunch of them already hung, flopping helplessly.

  "Like a string a catfish, ain't it?" One of the men laughed.

  Freddy asked, "What happens if a lot of them come all at once, like before?"

  "We'd just have to drive you boys around the block and lead 'em off. They're pretty dumb. Normally, we don't even see 'em-it's you they after."

  Then the loading was finished, and they all took seats as best they could amid all the sacks and cartons. The boys felt strange to be surrounded by so much food when they had been hungry for so long. If the guys on the sub could see this! The thought reminded them that it was becoming late; they were overdue. Would Kranuski sail without them?

  The engine rumbled to life, and they drove back down the embankment the way they had come, back to the train tracks. In a moment, they were out of the trees and in sight of the big railroad trestle. Turning aside, the driver eased them down the steep bank of the river and straight into the water. Plunging heavily downward, the truck settled deep, bobbed upward, and became a true boat.

  Sal suddenly had the crazy thought that perhaps they were being returned to the submarine. Could it possibly be that all this food was for them? Was there some alliance between these men and those on the sub? He didn't dare say anything, not wanting to jinx his wildest hope that the terror of the last few hours was finally over. That they were safe.

  As the amphibious truck scudded downriver toward the bay, its ugly-masked captain asked, "Now, what you boys doin' here?"

  Another man said, "They come off'n that submarine, Marcus, I told you."

  "Shut up and let them tell it. We know you boys come off that sub; the question is why?"

  Sal hesitated. He thought it might be dangerous to mention that they were refugees from MoCo-the Mogul Cooperative. The place up north from which they had all barely escaped and which had left them all with grim souvenirs of their brush with corporate governance: permanent scars on their foreheads… and deeper scars on their psyches. It was more than likely that these men worked for the Moguls. He stumbled for words, but before he could speak, Kyle answered, "Hunger, dude. Provisions."

  "Provisions?" The man spoke the word as if it was a foreign language. "What do you think we been doin' here for the past week but gathering trade goods? You don't but have to load 'em on board."

  I knew it! Sal thought. He had no idea who this man thought they were, but he nodded, and said, "Oh, okay. Cool."

  "But they just set you ashore, anyway? To play tag with them blue monkeys?"

  "We needed food."

  "Son, food's about ninety percent of what we do. They's already near on two hunnerd tons of it sitting on the Mobile Bay just waitin' to be picked up. I don't get it. Somebody's confused here, and it ain't me. Now, let's try this again real slow: Did they really send you out in your shirtsleeves on a little shopping trip, or is it that you was lookin' for something else? Down that tunnel back yonder, maybe?"

  "I'm really not sure, sir. We have a new commander, and things have been a little… confused lately, so I guess maybe they forgot to tell us something."

  The men shook their heads and made sounds of contempt. "So you're just out here rustlin' up some grub? Some bacon and eggs, maybe? Some Malt-O-Meal? Shit, son, I guess they don't like you much. What'd you think them signal fires was for? I suppose you don't know nothing about that tunnel back there."

  "We don't."

  "That look like a Piggly Wiggly to you?"

  "No, sir. We-"

  The man jerked his chin up at a Xombie jutting from the vehicle's saw-toothed bowsprit. Sal was shocked to realize that it was Lulu. "Or this little cutie right here-ain't she about the tamest Harpy you ever seen? Now why is that? See, that tunnel was booby-trapped eight ways to Sunday-anybody goin' in the front door would get flushed right out the back. We done had it staked out for three days now, just in case some person or nonperson of interest might happen along and trip the switch. Like this 'un here."

  Sal now had a pretty good suspicion of who these men were, upon whose mercy they were depending, and it didn't look good. These had to be the foragers, the worker ants at the bottom of the Mogul pyramid, the ground troops in the war for groceries. Slaves to the machine just as he and the other boys had briefly been slaves.

  "Don't tail me you don't know what I'm talkin' about, boy."

  Before Sal could stop him, Freddy Fisk piped in. "We know her. That's Lulu Pangloss. We had a bunch of Xombies like her on board. They're different because they all get shots of Lulu's blood,
and it acts on them sort of like, like Ritalin or something."

  "Her blood?" the awful face asked, leaning in. "Run that by me again, son."

  "Dr. Langhorne gave her something-I don't know much about it, but they call it the Tonic. Ow!-lay off! She and the other Xombies were sent ashore separate from us because nobody knew what they would do on their own. If they came back, I think Dr. Langhorne was hoping to use them as a foraging squad."

  The men's eyebrows rose at this; they looked at each other. One of them mouthed the word Tonic, and another, Langhorne. Freddy sensed the heightened interest and suddenly wondered if he should have spoken so freely, rubbing his arm where Kyle had pinched it.

  Trying to limit the damage, Sal cut in. "But we don't know anything about that tunnel-we were just on the run from Xombies." He became choked up. "Most of our party's been wiped out."

  The circle of gruesome helmets stared silently at them for a long minute, eerie as witch-doctor masks, then one of the men asked, "Why you boys on that submarine in the first place? Since when does the Navy give out free kid-die rides?"

  Sal replied, "We helped fix it up for a refugee ship. Our dads worked for the submarine company."

  "You the leader?"

  Sal hesitated, but when none of the other boys spoke up, he said, "I guess."

  "I figured, 'cuz you seem to be doin' most of the talkin'. What about the rest of y'all? Why you got them scabs on your foreheads? Look like a bunch of damn Hare Krishnas. And I still don't understand how come they sent you out like this, pedaling damn bicycles! Just don't make no damn sense. Something ain't right, and I mean to find out what."

  Kyle replied, "It's the first time we've gone ashore, sir. The city looked empty. I guess we just weren't expecting so many Xombies."

  Ray Despineau spoke for the first time all day. He was a quiet, shy boy, made quieter and more introverted by the loss of his family. On the boat he rarely spoke to anyone but Sal, and only in the gloomiest tones. This had become something of a running joke among the other boys, which had caused Ray to retreat even further inward. In monotone, he said, "You bump your head a lot on a submarine."

  The men burst into gales of laughter.

  Helmet bobbing, the Texarkanan said, "Shit, son, you made my day. Well, all right, then. Don't you worry none about it. Don't make a lick a sense, but I suppose it'll all come out in the wash. In the meantime we-all gone be buckaroos. Shee-it, boys! Where the hail are my manners? We ain't even been properly introduced. Name's Marcus Amos Washington, but they call me Voodooman. You'll have to excuse us if we don't shake your hands, but it might be a little hard to turn loose again. My second-in-command here is Mr. Righteous Weeks."

  "Greetings, boys," said Weeks. "Marcus won't tell you how he got his name, but I will: It's from the prize bull he rode to win his first championship belt-one mean mo'fuckin' steer name of Voodoo. Nobody else ever went the full eight seconds on that devil, not even in the professional circuit. That was goin' on twenty years ago, when Marcus warn't much older'n you boys and green as grass, so you can take that as proof that anything's possible in this here world-hell, look at us now. Lemme hear you shout: Yee-haa!"

  Looking at each other, the boys feebly replied, "Yee-haa."

  "Come on now," Weeks prompted. "YEE-HAA!"

  "Yee-haa!"

  "That's just pitiful. Let's show 'em how to do it: YEEEE-HAAA!"

  "YEEEE-HAAA!" all the men whooped, shooting pistols in the air and outwhooping each other.

  While this was going on, Sal happened to notice that the tide was running at its peak. If Mr. Kranuski's plan still held, the sub would likely be on the move. But since it couldn't submerge until it reached the open sea, they could probably still catch it if they tried. He had to yell to be heard above the din: "Sir? Could you just tell me, are we going back to the boat now?"

  "The boat?"

  "The submarine."

  "What's your hurry, son?"

  "Well, they told us they were going to sail with the tide, and we're running pretty late."

  As though reassuring a small child, Voodooman said, "Now, don't you worry none, we gone get you to your boat… all in good time. Meantime, you just set a spell."

  Sal didn't like the way he said it.

  "Here are your new quarters," Kranuski said, opening the door to the executive-officer suite. "Don't ever say I never did anything for you."

  Alton Webb went inside, nodding appreciatively. It was nothing he hadn't seen before, but it was finally his. Quite a leap for a guy who never expected to be promoted above senior chief, much less become a commissioned officer, lieutenant grade-and now the ship's XO, no less. It would have been a dream come true if it all wasn't just more proof that everything had gone to shit. That devalued the achievement somewhat.

  Webb looked around the little cabin, cozy as a first-class train compartment with its fake wood paneling, personal desk, bunk, and cleverly stowable sink. His whole body was tense with anticipation.

  "Ah, my old room." Kranuski sighed jokingly. He had been in there less than three months. "So many memories…" He tapped the bulkhead as though petting a loyal old horse, then ran his hand down to the handle of an adjoining door. It opened onto a tiny shower compartment that connected the XO quarters with his new command stateroom on the opposite side.

  Looking at the floor, Kranuski jerked back with a start.

  "That head's been in here."

  "What head?" asked Webb.

  "What head? The head! That fucking head! Fred Cowper's head!"

  "I thought it went down the TDU."

  "That's what Langhorne originally said she did with it. Now I'm not so sure." Kranuski fidgeted for a moment, scanning the nooks of his quarters. He could barely look at Webb; suddenly he felt dangerously vulnerable, as though he had made a critical error in chess. Gathering his composure, he asked, "How are the preparations coming along for getting under way?"

  Webb was studying him closely. "Everything looks ship-shape. We ran a test on the A induction valve but couldn't trace the glitch-probably a bad sensor. The tube itself seems to be working all right. Other than that, all critical systems are in the green. The tide's just hitting peak. If we pull anchor now, we can run right out on the current."

  "Good. No word on those shore parties?"

  Alton Webb's broad face remained blank. "No, sir."

  "All right." Kranuski sighed. "Prepare the bridge for surface maneuvers. Get everyone on station. Let's get the hell out of here."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BOBBY RUBIO

  "Dad, Dad…" Bobby cries, panting as he approaches the exit booth. He can hear a tinny radio voice saying, "-the public is instructed to wait in their homes for the duration of the emergency, with the exception of essential medical, law-enforcement, and military personnel. To maintain critical lines of communication, phone usage is restricted to-"

  Behind the fogged windows, his dad is bent out of sight, only the humped back of his brown garage uniform showing as he fiddles with something on the floor. Bobby opens the metal sliding door with a crash. "Dad-"

  A silver-haired, steel blue mummy stares out at him. The ghoulish creature is wearing his dad's brown coat and stooping over the big man's lifeless body to remove the key ring from his trousers.

  Bobby starts to scream, but the grim specter lunges at him and claps a long, rough hand over his mouth, pinning the boy's frantic body in a painfully tight bear hug.

  "Shhh," admonishes the monster. In a voice that is slow and deep and oddly gentle, it says, "Don't worry, I'm not one of them. I didn't kill him; he killed himself. I just found him this way."

  Now Bobby notices that his dad's shirtsleeve is rolled up and there is a blood-filled syringe hanging out of his arm. Bobby knows all too well what that means, knows it is the reason his parents had been through counseling and finally gotten divorced, but this final cop-out is not something he is prepared to accept.

  Kicking wildly, Bobby tries to bite, to escape, to scream, He didn't ki
ll himself! He didn't! He never would!

  Out the back of the garage, across the exit driveway and beyond the overflow parking lot, Bobby can see a man riding a sputtering motorcycle down Fountain Street. The man is being pursued by dozens of crazy, half-naked blue people, mostly women-the street is full of them. The motorcycle's engine keeps coughing and dying, and its rider keeps kick-starting it, barely keeping ahead of the pack. But the running stalemate can't last. Finally, the man realizes it's hopeless and ditches the bike, trying to dodge his attackers on foot. In final desperation he pulls a handgun out of his jacket and fires at the nearest one, popping away uselessly as it tackles him. A hurtling police cruiser swerves hard around the trouble and keeps right on going. There will be no help coming.

  The terrible blue man releases Bobby and stands back. "We have to go up," he says, indicating the concrete ramp. "Up top. It's the only place."

  Shattered by shock and grief, Bobby moans, "Why? Why is this happening?"

  "Don't you know? Ask yourself what the King of Kings has in common with a monarch butterfly, then provide the means of mass production. But wait, you say: Where is our crucifix, our chrysalis? Do we weave a cocoon around our heart… or cast it in Portland cement?" He lurches out of the booth and starts up the ramp.

  "How come you're not like the rest of them?"

  "Argyria-silver toxicity. Occupational hazard. I was blue before blue became the new black."

  The man is clearly nuts, but Bobby is still alarmed to see him go. "I can't just leave my dad here!" he cries.

  Without a backward glance, the man says, "Then you'll join the millions of other satisfied customers."

  Bobby falls on top of his dad and weeps: "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, Dad. Why did you do this? How could you leave me here?"

  The voice on the radio continues to drone. "-BBC World Service reports that a similar crisis is sweeping Europe and Asia, and that the UN Security Council is convening an emergency session-just a moment… just a moment, please. I have just received word that due to technical difficulties we will be going off the air in five minutes-"