Apocalypticon x-2

by Walter Greatshell

  "What about Kyle?" asked Sal.

  "What about him?"

  "We can't just leave without him."

  "It's not like we have a choice," said Todd. "Who the hell knows what they're doing to him over there? Longer we stick around, the more likely it is that it'll be our turn to find out."

  "He's probably dead," said Ray Despineau in his Eeyore-like monotone.

  "Which is what we'll be, too, as soon as they contact the boat," Todd said. "It's only a matter of time before they realize we're fugitives from their precious Valhalla. I can't wait to find out whatever it is they'll do with us then. Guaranteed it'll suck."

  "You guys are crazy," said Freddy, becoming more nervous by the second. "How do you think we're gonna get out of here?"

  Sal looked thoughtful. "I don't think it should be too hard to escape if we do it in the early morning when they're all asleep and hungover. It's not like they keep guards posted on deck."

  "They don't need guards," Freddie argued. "I've heard those outer decks gather Xombies every night-they have to mop them up every day as the first order of business."

  "We can handle a couple of Xombies with the weapons they have lying around loose. The whole place is a damn armory."

  Todd said, "Maybe, maybe not, but we'd wake up half the barge doing it. All it takes is one guy blowing the whistle, and you can kiss our asses good-bye-somehow I don't think they'd look kindly on us declining their hospitality, much less stealing their shit."

  "So what do you suggest? Stay here?"

  Freddy shook his head. For the first time in his life, he realized he had an opinion that didn't square with the dominant majority-these guys didn't have a clue what they were saying. As far as he was concerned, Kyle Hancock had been their last voice of reason, and without him, there were no clear options. "I don't know, man. I mean, even if we could escape and make it back to the boat, what is there to look forward to? Getting stuck in that dungeon until they starve us to death? Whole time I was in there, I felt like Pinocchio in the belly of the whale-I ain't down with that no more."

  "Are you down with staying here and being somebody's house elf?" asked Sal. "Because that's how it works, Freddy, you know that. They talk a lot about freedom of choice, but it's all based on survival of the fittest, law of the jungle. Sure, there's no rules here as such, but haven't you noticed that there's a really strict social code? The amount of freedom you get depends on what caste you belong to. From each according to his ability, to each according to his need… just so long as you accept your rightful place in the dogpile. They look outrageous, but they're a bunch of conformists sticking to a script because that's what's worked for them up to this point, kept them alive. There are no rebels here-the real rugged individualists probably all got killed off the first week."

  Freddy said, "They eat good, though."

  "They do eat good. But I think if we can get back to the boat with what we now know about Xombie protection, our supply problems might be over."

  "That's a big if. We don't even know if the boat's still there."

  "It's there, it's gotta be there. Kranuski and Webb might be assholes, but the rest of the crew wouldn't just bail on us like that. Plus, this whole place is freaking out about something, haven't you noticed? Guarantee you it's because of the boat. Look, I say the time to move is tomorrow morning. We just act like we know what we're doing and slip out right under their noses. Anybody asks what we're doing, we say that Voodooman dude told us it was okay."

  "Yeah? And what then? Jump overboard and swim back?"

  "I was wondering about that myself," said Todd.

  "I knew it," groaned Ray. "We might as well forget about it-we're dead."

  Ignoring him, Sal replied, "I was thinking more along the lines of those water scooters they've got tied up alongside."

  "Are you kidding? Steal a boat? Talk about pissing them off, plus we'll be sitting ducks in those-I've ridden a Jet Ski before, but I'm no daredevil like you. They'll chase us down and blow us out of the water before we can get five feet."

  "I'm betting more like five hundred. Just enough of a head start to get out of sight."

  "Out of sight of what? Dude, try a mile-the sub's at least that far. We'll have targets on our backs halfway across the bay."

  "That's why we don't head downriver to the bay-we don't go to the sub at all. We run upriver, duck under the highway overpass, and break for shore using the bridge pylons as cover. Then we cut overland back to the tug docks, where we started out."

  "Overland? I hate to tell you this, Sal, but aren't you forgetting something? Something that's blue and fucked-up and starts with the letter X?"

  "No, that's the best part…"

  The door flew open with a bang, causing the boys to jump.

  "Hey, got a minute? I want to talk to you fellas."

  It was Marcus Washington-the genial Reaper captain known as Voodooman. They froze at the sight of him, terrified at what he might have overheard.

  "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, looking around inquisitively. The night's fiesta was going strong, and he was wearing an entirely different party getup-gone was the pink suit, replaced by a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, golf slacks, and shiny Italian loafers.

  "No," said Sal, as the others tried to look casual. "What's up?"

  "I think you know what's up."

  "What do you mean?"

  He checked the booming corridor and shut the door. "It's time you dudes got out of here."

  The boys were silent, the hair standing up on the back of their necks. Was this a trap?

  Voodooman continued in a low voice, "Things have been cockeyed ever since Uncle Spam come back, but he and his posse ain't never taken no one prisoner before. Can't say as I like the sound of that-just rubs me the wrong way. Far as I knew, you boys was to be offered every courtesy as citizens of the U.S. of A.-ain't no call for takin' hostages or torturin' nobody. Problem is, that big old submarine of yours done got folks spooked. We don't know what it's waitin' for, and neither you or Uncle Spam done give us a straight answer. Long as it sits there, we're sewed up tight in this river. I don't think El Dopa's got a damn clue what he's doin' with y'all-he's just tryin' to cover his butt.

  "Fact is, some of us been getting real tired of sending all these goods up north, wishin' we could go our own way. Can't see as how we even need Uncle Spam all that much anymore. These last couple weeks have proved we can get along perfectly well by ourselves. Sure, we needed a leg up at first, but lately it's gettin' so that we're doing it by habit rather than for any actual ree-ward. Maybe there's others feel the same on that submarine of your'n."

  "There are. We've told you everything we know," Sal said.

  "Maybe you have, maybe you ain't-point is I don't give a tinker's damn. I think as long as we hold you boys, we're just draggin' this thing out, whatever it is. Obviously, your people won't leave without you, which means we gotta send you back, pronto. You all are about the same age my sons woulda been, and it ain't right to hold you against your will. This ain't no fuckin' jailhouse strike. You got a right to your freedom, same as us."

  The boys nodded hopefully, hearts thrumming.

  "Here's my problem: I can't let you go without authority from either El Dopa or the major hisself, and they ain't talkin'. So here's what I'm gonna do…"

  The four boys left their quarters before dawn and went down the puke-smelling corridor to the Coca-Cola van, where they fortified themselves with caffeine and sugar, then proceeded to the ceiling hatch at the end. There was a thick plywood cap screwed on it, and they quickly removed the wing nuts, trying to be as quiet as possible as they opened the lid.

  Dim pinkish light came in, along with cool morning air that smelled like low tide and lilacs-a smell oddly like the funeral parlor where Sal's mother had been shown. The boys climbed single file onto the roof of the first tier, taking with them the rolled-up rope ladder to access the outside deck of the barge. Before lowering it, they scanned the area for Xombies. They could on
ly see one side, but it looked clear. Voodooman had promised them it would be.

  Every one of them was well armed. Under cover of the party last night, Marcus Washington had crept around the deserted passageways and empty dorms, taking anything that he thought might be of use to the boys, returning with the goods as well as detailed instructions. After he was gone, they smoked cigars and got plastered on peppermint schnapps, tearfully saying their good-byes to each other and the world-it was an emotional night, and quite likely their last.

  Now they all had throbbing headaches, dry mouths, and a revolting aftertaste-as well as four samurai swords, three fire axes, two machetes, a couple of crowbars, and two military-grade Taser weapons of Israeli manufacture. These were all items that had just been lying around loose amid mounds of other clutter, so Voodooman wasn't expecting the loss to be immediately noticed. For that matter, he could have given them anything from machine guns to light artillery to rocket-propelled grenades… except that it was wiser if they didn't wake up the whole barge.

  Lowering themselves to the deck, the four boys crept to the bow ramp, where they had first come on board. Everything was in deep shadow, and they moved carefully to avoid tripping over anything. There was a lot of equipment here, stuff for the shore patrols, but they were mainly interested in one particular item: the oxygen tent.

  There it was, deflated, heaped against the wall like a tarp-covered pile of junk. Racks of full-body coveralls and other protective gear were set out to dry, stinking of bleach. A large air tank was connected to the tent's gasket, and Sal cautiously opened the valve by increments. It hissed, but hopefully not loudly enough to be noticed.

  For a moment nothing happened, and Todd said, "Turn it up some more," but Sal said, "Wait." Creases in the clear vinyl began to pop out as the tent inflated.

  It was all too reminiscent of the inflatable fortress of the Moguls-the bubble of bloated excess that was Valhalla-swelling bigger and bigger like a physical manifestation of the boys' growing anxiety.

  Swallowing his fear, Sal said, "Ray, Freddy, scope out the boats down there, will you? Make sure Voodooman cut the wires, and we can get down without any hassle. While we're waiting, we should also put on these coveralls."

  "Fuck that," said Freddy. "They'll mess up the crease on my new threads."

  "So will the Xombie that kills your ass."

  Freddy and Ray reluctantly complied, grumbling that they were digging themselves a deeper and deeper hole. They still weren't sure that this wasn't just an elaborate trap. But they were committed now, there was no backing out. If it wasn't quite the first daring escape they had ever taken part in (that would have to be the hijacking of the submarine, followed by the exodus from Thule), it was by far the most nerve-wracking. Not to mention they felt stupid in hooded plastic jumpsuits.

  Returning, Freddy said breathlessly, "Boats are no problem-the keys are in the ignition, just like he said. Maybe we should forget this and just take one now."

  "No, you said it yourself: They'll blow us out of the water. Our only chance is a fast dash to shore before they can get their bearings."

  "Well, you look like a bunch of Oompa-Loompas."

  Todd tossed him a suit. "Join the club."

  "What about this stuff?" asked Ray, glumly referring to all the strange protective equipment littering the deck: wire helmets resembling weird birdcages, shoulder and knee pads, chest and back plates, gauntlets made of light, flexible steel mesh.

  "We have to put that on, too. And be quick-sun's coming up."

  "Everything? We'll barely be able to move in all that junk."

  "Everything. You heard Voodooman-if they do it, we do it."

  They covered themselves with mesh armor from head to toe, checking each other over and cinching hard-to-reach straps. Fortunately, most of the fastenings were Velcro and very simple to figure out. Inflating the tent proceeded apace, until at last the thing stood rigid before them, a lot bigger than they remembered-big as a house. It looked like one of those bouncy kiddy rooms at the fair.

  Sal shut off the valve, and they crowded through the air lock, stiff and clumsy as astronauts. It smelled like plastic inside, like a new beach ball. The steel drums were all on a wooden pallet in the center of the main chamber, and beside them was a compressor and a bundle of tall gas cylinders marked OXYGEN-FLAMMABLE-DO NOT EXPOSE TO OPEN FLAME.

  With trepidation, the boys examined the sturdy lid clamps on the barrels.

  "You sure you wanna try this?" asked Todd.

  "No," said Freddy.

  "This is stupid," said Ray. "We're all gonna die."

  "Shut up," Sal said. "It's the only way. Come on, you saw how they did it."

  "Go ahead, then."

  Using a crowbar as a lever, Sal sprang the first clamp… then the second. The lid was free. As the other boys stood well back, he worked the crowbar's tip under the lid and prized it off.

  Gross.

  Underneath was a slimy mass of naked flesh, looking for all the world like raw turkey skin, except there was too much of it-a whole barrelful. It was bluish gray, shot through with tiny capillaries of a brighter, almost violet hue. The flesh was wrinkly as wet laundry, and even showed a zipperlike seam where two patches had been stapled together. It made Sal sick to look at it, queasy; his eyes were playing tricks, making the Xombie flesh appear to be bulging upward, swelling like rising dough. Heaving toward him.

  "Shit, man, look out!" Todd shouted, knocking Sal backward as a great flap of translucent flesh fanned up out of the barrel like a huge sail. Falling in slow motion, Sal was reminded of a magic trick he had learned as a kid-the scarf from the hat that just keeps coming and coming. Todd dove clear as the thing batted wildly in the air, a gigantic webbed hand seeking something to grab, a six-foot-tall bat wing that even made a weird chittering noise.

  The oxygen!

  Lying on the floor amid tumbled oxygen cylinders, Sal suddenly realized what was wrong: They had inflated only the outer envelope of the tent, the part that supported the structure, without flushing the inner chamber with pure oxygen. They had opened the stupid can in plain, ordinary air!

  Feeling like a complete fool, and probably a dead one, he grabbed the valve on the nearest oxygen tank and gave it a spin, blasting a stream of gas at the shimmering quilted membrane that was just then breaking on him like a veiny, steel-stitched wave.

  The force of the oxygen filled the thing like a billowing sheet… and all at once it was collapsing, blushing, retreating into a shriveled pile in the corner, attached by a rag of pink meat to the open drum.

  "Fuck," Todd said. He and the other boys were tangled together on the floor, having tripped over each other trying to get out. "You got the bitch."

  "Yeah," Sal said, getting up and retrieving his face mask. "Sorry-I didn't realize there were separate tanks for the O2."

  "Hey, better late than never."

  "Ain't like we knew what was goin' on. I thought we were toast."

  "Yeah, good job, dude."

  Sal shrugged, turning the valve low. He already felt a little giddy from breathing pure oxygen. Determined not to make any more fatal mistakes, he said, "Okay, we gotta move fast before we pass out in here. Everybody come over here and let's see what we can do with this stuff…"

  It was disgusting, like handling flayed human skin that had been sewn into grotesque sheets-which is exactly what it was. Fumigating everything with fresh oxygen before they touched it, the boys were appalled at what twisted things they had been driven to: They were wearing human body parts!-something only the most disgusting psychopath would do. Nauseated and retching, they pretended it was rubber and tried not to breathe through their noses, making sounds of revulsion as they squeamishly draped themselves with slimy tissue of every kind. The stuff had been sewn together into crude overlapping ponchos and skirts that hung slackly to the ground, threatening to rip and fall off at any moment. More stapling was required to make it stay on, but the dragging hems were still collecting bits of dirt.
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br />   "Okay, you-you all ready?" Sal asked, shivering as if from a chill.

  "No," Freddy said. Ray echoed him, and Todd said, "Not really, dude… but there's no turning back now."

  Standing ready at the oxygen tank, Sal said, "Open the tent."

  Freddy and Todd spread the tent flaps wide and let the outside air in.

  Only a small percentage of the atmosphere is oxygen-the four boys were well drilled in this from living aboard the sub-most is nitrogen and other gases. But oxygen is the only one vital to animal life, the only hedge humankind had against Agent X. This was by design: The blood-oxygen bond interfered with Agent X absorption, which was why Xombies suffocated their victims. But oxygen was only effective against Xombies at artificially high concentrations (toxic carbon monoxide worked even better, as Lulu Pangloss had proved) such as those found in hospital ICUs, decompression chambers, and other such rarefied environments. Dilute it even a little, and the Maenad cells came back with a vengeance.

  Waiting for the unthinkable to happen, Sal had a little revelation: If the atmosphere was comprised of pure oxygen, Xombies couldn't exist. Then again, neither could any vegetation-damn. Nerves jangling, he wondered how long it would take for the effect of pure O2 to wear off in Xombie tissues. Should have a stopwatch…

  "Think of it as a s-science experiment," he said, trying to make light.

  "Yeah, we're the guinea pigs," Todd said.

  It was fast. The tent walls wobbled as a fresh ocean breeze swirled in and replaced the funk of four sweaty, unwashed boys occupying a big plastic bag. In a few minutes, they would have used up all the oxygen anyway, just by breathing-Sal couldn't help thinking they were fools to rush it.

  Nothing's going to happen, he thought, as an odd crackling force began spreading across the surface of his body. At first it felt like a stiffening blood-pressure cuff… except all over. The tension spread unequally, so that some patches expanded faster than others and were answered by slower pressures elsewhere, creating an odd kneading sensation, a give-and-take as warring cellular kingdoms strained to achieve equilibrium.