"We handled them." Tilting his head toward the other barge, he said, "They over there now."
"Why are you both here?"
"Waiting for you, brother."
"Me? Why?"
"Because I knew you'd come."
"Yes, to save you," Sal said bitterly. "But it's too late."
"I've already been saved, Sal."
"Looks more like the exact opposite."
"I know. It looks strange, but the crawl from darkness is always difficult. Birth pangs are painful."
"You're not Kyle-Kyle didn't talk like that."
"I'm still here, there's just more of me. Kyle was a dot; now he's a line. Yesterday, I was standing where you are, trapped in that point of time, full of the same thoughts and fears. I remember the feeling: It was like being blind and helpless… a tiny flame in a wind tunnel. Scary. I wish you could just trust me, but I know it doesn't work that way."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
Lulu cut in: "Feeling better isn't the point. The point is surviving. Going on. That's what what Agent X was invented for: saving your stupid ass from the end of the world."
"Don't you mean causing the end of the world?"
"No. The end of the world is coming from up there." She pointed her dainty blue finger at the sky. "I know you can't see it yet-neither could we. But it's there, like a white ball of dust, getting brighter. Closer every second. Soon it will be brighter than the full moon, and when it hits Earth, it will scour the planet's surface like a billion atom bombs. Nothing will live, nothing will survive it… except maybe us."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The Big Enchilada. Uncle Miska knew about it. A few others did, too, but were forced to keep it a secret. They called it Wormwood. It's a comet, a huge body of ice and debris blasted off one of Saturn's moons, Enceladus, in a volcanic explosion."
"The Big Enchilada-oh my God," Sal muttered, shaking his head. "You people are crazy."
"Miska found out about it years ago and dedicated his longevity research to preventing it. He knew no higher lifeforms would survive the impact but that certain primitive bacteria could-the same bacteria that seeded the early Earth. If human cells could be engineered to resemble these bacteria, then mankind might survive-hence, Agent X. He calls it the galactic prophylactic."
"How the hell do you know all this?"
The question seemed to catch them up short. They looked at each other, Lulu cranking her bulbous doll's head completely around, a cherubic nightmare with pigtails.
"I don't know," she said finally. "We just do."
"When's this huge disaster supposed to happen?"
"It could be at any time."
Sal didn't have a clue what to think anymore, his whole foundation of reality having come unstuck. It wasn't just the shock of hearing Xombies speak intelligently, or of learning that Kyle had joined that deathless horde, or even of seeing daylight through the shrinking cavity in Kyle's chest-everything was wrong, ever since Agent X. God had gone wrong, the whole world was inside out, desecrated beyond redemption, and Sal couldn't handle it anymore. He was done playing, he quit, and in quitting, something in him broke loose; the adrenaline drained from his spine like quicksilver, leaving numbness and exhaustion. All he knew for sure anymore was that he wanted no part of this.
Across the water, someone with a megaphone yelled, "Fire! Fire!" At first the men there must have misunderstood, because the shooting increased, but then people started pointing up at the smoke pouring from the container stacks. "Ship's on fire!" the megaphone squawked. "Fire in the hold, fire in the hold! Abandon ship!"
The defensive line collapsed as men started running around like ants, barking orders and screaming that everyone had to reach the boats. This was no small challenge: the Xombie-infested deck had been a rather abstract menace before, an annoying but purely technical problem to be dealt with in good time. Now suddenly it was a moat that they had to ford before they burned to death. And the barge was full of flammable, toxic, explosive cargo-there was no time to lose.
Black smoke began pouring out of the deck hatches and windows. There was a series of metallic bangs from within the pyramid that caused the whole thing to jump, and a hundred smoking holes magically appeared in the metal. Schrapnel whanged like bullets off the deck, and the sea was sprinkled with tiny white splashes. But threaded among those splashes was a white ribbon-the wake of a Jet Ski.
It was Todd. Todd was coming for him.
Sal took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took a running leap over the railing.
He was just off his feet when something hooked him around the arm and neck and yanked him backward, upward, carrying him into the rope canopy. A cold, hard cheek pressed against his, and a sardonic skull's mouth lined with black teeth whispered in his ear:
"Haven't you always wondered what it would be like?"
Choking, trying to break free, Sal found his free arm tangling with the disordered mass of flesh and bone that was Uncle Spam's lower body. Its branching, animated nest of gristle was clinging to the overhanging netting like a spider to its web, upper torso dangling, arms carrying the boy as it scrambled up toward its lair in the radio shack.
Sal's own strength was insufficient but that of his Xombie oversuit more than made up the difference: It flexed violently, every fiber rolling like a fleshy wave-a wave comprised of individual Maenad cells popping upward like coral polyps, or spectators in a microscopic football stadium. Starting at Sal's feet, it gained force as it rose to his neck, finally converging to whipcrack against Uncle Spam's clutching arms. The result was explosive, breaking the headlock and dropping Sal's body to the top deck.
Stunned, he tumbled, got up, tried to run-and dove straight into the ropes. Something scuttled toward him, knocking him down, sitting on him like a ton of rank-smelling wet kindling. Pinned, Sal fumbled in his utility bag for the butane torch, then shoved his arm deep inside the chomping, slimy maw and flicked it on. With a bleating sound, the crushing weight vanished.
He barely had time to think, What the fuck is it? when Uncle Spam came for him again. Sal had no peripheral vision in his helmet, but he saw the lanterns bob as the thing approached, and his mind raced for what to do. Jump?-Lulu and Kyle were on the patio just below; if he twisted his ankle, they'd have him.
At the last second, he grabbed the metal basket of the barge-to-barge traverse, freed its anchor hook, and flung himself out into space. At the same instant, the monster pounced on his back, twanging the cable and doubling Sal's downward acceleration.
It was a long, fast glide, their combined weight causing the braided wire to sag steeply, the basket's steel coasters screaming from the strain. "Get off!" Sal shouted, fighting as best he could while hanging on by his arms. It wasn't fair: The nightmarish creature at his back had all the advantage. It was like a big, ghastly tick with a human head, interchangeably using its hands or the meat hooks of its grisly undercarriage to hang on and attack. If not for the protection of Sal's Xombie suit, he would have been dead already.
But suit or no suit, the thing was winning. In free fall, the boy whipped his head from side to side, trying to protect his airway as bunches of fluttery, slippery claws tore the Xombie flesh from his face mask and began punching through the wire mesh. Elsewhere, he could feel them stripping him, sharp pincers worming between the seams, burrowing into his tough blue leather to seek out the warm skin underneath.
The shuttle came to rest at the belly of the cable-the exact midpoint of the hundred-yard span between the barges, less than twenty feet above the water. Swirling smoke from the burning freight barge wafted across, choking him. Nowhere left to go, neither forward nor back.
Sensing Sal's hopelessness, the hideous mouth wheedled in his ear. "Just relax. There is no need to suffer any longer. Let go, and you can join your friends."
Let go? Letting out a shuddering, sobbing laugh, Sal said, "Okay." He let go with one hand, swinging in space, and with his free hand reached for the large, three
-pronged grappling hook used to secure the basket.
"Nice hanging with you," he said, and jammed the hook's barbed points deep into the corded tendons of Uncle Spam's neck, throwing his full weight on it and dangling there. The monster recoiled, furiously grappling with the hook and chain.
Sal let go.
Shed of his weight, cable and basket jounced upward, catapulting Uncle Spam away like a rubber tarantula on a string.
Hitting the water, Sal plunged deep. Icy salt water dashed him in the face, flooding his mask but otherwise leaving him dry inside. The Xombie flesh contracted instantly, clamping tight and creating a waterproof seal over most of his body. Except for a threadlike trickle down his back, Sal was quite warm although completely unable to see, hear, or breathe.
The air trapped in his clothing made him fairly buoyant, popping him back to the surface with a minimum of effort. Athlete though he was, he had never been a tremendous swimmer. As a young child, he had taken swimming lessons at the YMCA-that was the extent of it.
Shaking the water out of his mask, the boy looked around for some sign of what to do next. His range of vision was not good. The two barges seemed very far away, as did the peaceful-looking green banks of the river. Large things were swirling around his legs, but they didn't touch him.
That leak was starting to worry him, however. The suit had been shredded back there in the fight and couldn't close properly. Freezing-cold water was pooling in his boots, making his toes numb, but worse than the cold was the weight-suddenly he was having to tread water just to keep his head up. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. On top of that, he could feel the pull of the tide; if he didn't figure out what to do pretty quick, he was going to drift around the point and out into the vastness of Narragansett Bay. While that might get him closer to the submarine, it would also put him far from shore. He'd never make it back alive.
I'm sinking.
Sal's legs were flooded halfway up to his calves now, dragging on him like a pair of loaded buckets. The effort required to stay afloat was becoming exhausting; if he stopped paddling for even a second, he would drop straight to the bottom and join all the others down there. Were his friends down there, too? Maybe looking up at him from the dusky green riverbed? He could hear Todd's voice: I got you, dude…
Without meaning to, Sal let up on his strokes, and water sloshed into his mouth. Swallowing a big gulp of brine, he vomited in his mask. No! Todd was up above, reaching down from his Jet Ski, trying to get ahold of Sal's helmet.
Fighting not to choke, unable to believe he was drowning, Sal flailed for a breath of pure air so he could keep up the struggle for just two more seconds-two seconds! That was all Todd needed. But then all of a sudden it was too much, everything against them, scales overbalancing like the pot of beans in that game he and his mom used to play before she died, and Sal went under.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SNAKE PIT
"You have reached the offices of Mogul Research Associates. The offices are now closed. If you know your party's extension, please enter it now and we will transfer you…"
"… You have reached the office of Dr. Alice Langhorne. Please leave a message after the beep."
"Alice, pick up. It's Chandra Stevens."
"Chandra-what is it?"
"Sorry to call you so late, but I thought you should know we just got the first test results back."
"Go ahead-I'm listening."
"They're positive."
"Which ones?"
"All of them."
"Even-?"
"Yes. It's definitely in the environment, and spreading. You were right. We're gonna have to call in the CDC before someone else does."
"Now slow down. First, you know as well as I do that it's benign-Benign by Design, remember? Second, it has a limited number of generations. It can't replicate forever, and its biological half-life is only a few more months. It will inevitably deteriorate."
"But not before it contaminates the entire biosphere. Which it will soon if it's already in the water table, colonizing iron-and if it's already in us."
"I think we have to accept that there's nothing we or anyone else can do to prevent that."
"We can go to the CDC."
"What good would that do? Just cause a big investigation and a lot of hand-wringing. It won't change anything. Ultimately, this thing just has to run itself out."
"You have reached the home of Dr. Uri Miska. Dr. Miska is not available right now to take your call, but if you leave your name and number, he will get…"
"Hello?"
"Dr. Miska, it's me."
"Hello, Alice. What a pleasant surprise. I was just dozing on the couch, watching Ron Popeil demonstrate his rotisserie oven and chanting 'Set It and Forget It' with the studio audience. It was like a sutra. If you're ever suffering from stress-based insomnia, I recommend it."
"I will, Professor. But Dr. Stevens just called me with some disturbing information, and I thought you should know right away."
"Okay, but first let me tell you my theory of infomercials. Here it is, the secret: You know why infomercials are so pleasant to watch? Why they draw you in? Because there are no commercials!"
"That's good, thank you, but please listen: The ASR has escaped. Multiple independent field tests have confirmed it's in ferrous subsoil and spreading like wildfire through groundwater."
"Any idea how the agent could have been released?"
"Not yet. At the moment we're playing catch-up."
"Your people haven't spoken to anyone else about this? The press? The CDC?"
"No."
"That's good. Don't. Because how we deal with this now will entirely determine its public importance. Do you remember the hullabaloo about genetically modified corn finding its way into the marketplace? No one else does, either. Realistically, this a nonproblem, an arcane scientific event of no interest to anyone, which has been anticipated with adequate safeguards. Of course we will track its progress, but I am sure it will eventually resolve itself if we just don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill, yes?"
"That's what I explained to Dr. Stevens."
"Wonderful. Beautiful. So what are you doing calling my house in the middle of the night? Is this an emergency?"
"No. Sorry to bother you, Professor."
"That's all right, that's all right. It's not the end of the world." -Transcript #874-7732, The Maenad Project El Dopa stood on the plunging bridge of his command yacht, a forty-eight-foot Chris Craft Roamer with an aluminum hull and all-mahogany interiors, and surveyed his armada.
Surrounding him were sixty other vessels, the major portion of which was a fleet of thirty-six Williard 10M Utility Boats, taken from the Navy yard in Mobile. These were sturdy open boats, packed to the beams with an assault force of nearly a thousand heavily armed and armored Reapers, all hunkered under tarps. The rest of the convoy, acting as a screen, was an assortment of Coast Guard cutters, various trawlers and pleasure cruisers, four amphibious trucks, two tugs, and a host of smaller craft. They were all flying white flags.
Under cover of heavy smoke from the gutted crane barge, this armada streamed from the mouth of the Seekonk River and banked right, facing the sunset. The uppermost reach of Narragansett Bay spread out before them, bright as a sea of new pennies. To the right was downtown Providence; to the left, tank farms and freight terminals, then the long passage to the Atlantic.
Dominating the view was an ominous black silhouette: the submarine. There was certainly no missing it, that long steel island with its winged tower rising above like a gigantic headstone.
As they neared it, a voice squawked from loudspeakers on the lead Coast Guard vessel:
"HOLD YOUR FIRE. WE COME IN PEACE. WE JUST WANT TO TALK."
There was no reply, no sign of anyone having heard, and no time to repeat the message-they were already there.
Covered by sharpshooters and several deck-mounted Gatling guns, the Williards swept in from the submarine's stern, splitting into two groups
and streaming up both sides of its featureless black hull. Weighted lines were heaved across the jettylike expanse, fastening the boats on one side to those opposite. When the hawsers were drawn tight, the fleet closed on the sub's flanks like a row of stitches. It reminded El Dopa of a cartoon he had once seen of Gulliver's Travels, where tiny people shot lines over an unconscious giant's limbs to secure them. It was a tricky operation: Without its cleats in place, the submarine was a uniquely featureless object, offering nothing to tie up to and no good purchase on its round sides for any kind of landing. El Dopa was impressed with his men's ingenuity; though few of them had much previous experience handling boats, they had all become quite adept sailors over the past four months.
Now the boatmen swarmed from their vessels, whooping and hollering as they rappelled onto the sub. They all wore the cowboy boots, weirdly decorated helmets, and body armor that distinguished them not only as Reapers but as the elite Hopalong Phalanx, whose new commander, General Righteous Weeks, was eager to prove himself.
Watching from a safe distance, El Dopa said to his second, "They're aboard." He picked up the microphone of his marine radio, and announced, "Attention submarine, I need you folks to listen to me. We don't have much time, so I ask for your full attention. You are under attack. Those sounds you hear are authorized representatives of the People's Expedition of the New United States taking over your ship. We demand your surrender, and will sink you if you don't immediately comply. Trust me, we are capable of doing what we say. If you cooperate, I promise no one will be harmed-you are worth more to us alive than dead; otherwise, we wouldn't bother doing what we're doing. With that in mind, perhaps we can negotiate some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement. Work together. On the other hand, if you refuse to surrender, you simply make yourselves and your vessel useless to us, and we will take you out. So I'm telling you to prepare yourselves for whatever is about to happen. It's up to you. Don't be afraid-it's time we all made our peace with eternity. You have one minute to decide."
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