The car matches his pace, the man calling out, “Listen! It’s an emergency! Do you hear me? I’m trying to help you! You have to get off the street!”
Ignoring the voice, Bobby cuts sharply up a narrow one-way alley so the man can’t follow. Why did everything bad have to happen at once?
“Good!” the man’s voice shouts at his back. “I hope they get you!” The car spurts away.
Bobby emerges on Washington Street and breaks left, making for the massive brick edifice of the Biltmore Hotel at the end. It’s not the hotel he wants, but the multistory parking garage behind the hotel, the Parkade, where his dad works. Beyond the hotel, the buildings open up in front of City Hall, and he can see others running. There’s some kind of ugly riot in Kennedy Plaza: people breaking the windows of blocked cars to drag out screaming passengers, and other people fleeing their vehicles and being chased across the park. He can’t see much of what’s going on, but even from a distance he can tell that the ones causing all the trouble look crazy, weird—they look like his mom looked. They look . . . blue.
No—don’t look at it! Bobby shudders in fear and turns away, gratefully ducking out of sight into a corner entrance of the garage.
Sheltered from the freezing wind and rain, he is suddenly aware of the frantic speed of his body, its manic clockwork spinning out of control to some kind of explosion or collapse. He yearns to start shrieking and never stop, or just curl up in a corner of the piss-smelling concrete stairwell and vomit up deep wracking sobs until he is empty inside. Oh God, to be empty, to be blank. He’s shaking so hard he can barely think or stand. But he can’t stop now; he’s almost there.
At the far back of the garage, at the base of the steeply twining exit ramp, he can make out the familiar, bearlike figure of his father behind the fogged glass of the lighted cashier’s booth.
Bobby whimpers, “Dad, Dad,” as he shambles forward, nearly swooning in anticipation of laying down his horrific burden, of relinquishing it to his father’s easygoing strength. His dad will know what to do. His dad will have to know . . .
Pain woke him up—something piercing the back of his hand. Bobby opened his eyes to an amazing, inexplicable vision. He was in an enormous tunnel of some sort, a windowless atrium four stories high, with rope ladders scaling the balconies and a strange ceiling of numbered white domes. Laundry was strung from one side to the other, giving it the look of a tenement courtyard, and makeshift structures of wood, fabric, plastic sheeting, and cardboard cluttered the steel-grated tiers. But the most amazing thing was that there were people—not blue-skinned monsters, but real human beings. Boys, all boys. The place smelled like a locker room and sounded like one, too, the scores of teenagers roosting in that metal cavern like so many pigeons, clambering up and down the scaffolds, sprawling in hammocks, chattering and calling to one another across the echoing subterranean galleries.
Ow—there was that pain again. It was from a big fat IV needle—a bag of clear fluid was dripping into his hand from above. Bobby had nearly yanked it out trying to sit up.
“Hey, you’re awake,” said a hoarse teenage voice, speaking from behind the glare of a hanging lamp. “Whoa, just chill, lie back, you’re safe here.” The voice spoke into a microphone: “Uh, Mr. Tran? He’s awake.”
“How’s he look?” squawked an intercom. “Is he lucid?”
“I don’t know.” To Bobby: “Are you lucid?”
“What?”
“He seems okay to me.”
“Keep an eye on him. Talk to him. I’m tied up here at the moment. Can you handle it a while longer?”
“Yes, sir, I guess.”
“Good man. I’ll be down as quick as I can. Just make sure he’s comfortable. Remember what I’ve shown you, Sal. This is just like our first-aid drills, no different.”
“I’m on it, sir. Over.”
“Who are you?” Bobby asked, squinting into the light.
“I’m Sal DeLuca.” He moved the lamp so that Bobby could see him. Sal Deluca was tall and thin, almost gaunt, with large, intense eyes that studied Bobby through long hanks of unwashed brown hair. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Bobby. Bobby Rubio.”
“Bobby Rubio,” Sal repeated, writing it down. “Age?”
“I’m ten . . . I think.”
“You think? You don’t know your own age?”
“I don’t know . . . How long has it been? What month is it?” Bobby was suddenly seized with panic.
“April.”
Slumping with relief, he said, “I’m ten, I’m still ten. My birthday isn’t until July.”
“And how are you feeling, Bobby? Any pain or discomfort?”
“My hand hurts.”
“Sorry, we had to do that; you were very dehydrated when you came in. Any other problems?”
“Uh-uh. I don’t think.”
“Good. Well, pleased to meet you, Bobby.” Sal shook the smaller boy’s limp hand. “Welcome to the Big Room. You want some bug juice? It’s like Hawaiian Punch.” He handed over a straw cup full of red liquid.
Bobby accepted it eagerly, draining the sweet drink in one gulp. Catching his breath, he asked, “Where is this place?”
“What, the Big Room? It’s the middle section of the hull, where all the Trident missile silos used to be—my dad helped pull ’em out. Now it’s Crib City, one big slumber party. It’s minorly out of control right now. Nobody wants to be in charge since the last Youth Liaison Officer, Lulu, got Exed. She thought she had something wrong with her that kept her from going Smurf, but it still got her in the end, and all her friends. I heard she got my dad killed, too.” A shadow passed over Sal’s face, cleared.
“Anyway, this is juvie country all in here—the adults pretty much bunk forward or aft of us. We’ve got the best deal on the boat, don’t you think?”
Bobby could hardly follow any of this, except for one word: “Boat? What boat?”
“What boat do you think, dude? This boat.”
“We’re on a . . . boat?”
“Not a boat, dipwad, a submarine.”
“A summarine? No way.”
“Yes way. This is a submarine, all this. Didn’t you know that?”
Bobby recoiled. “You’re crazy. There’s no summarine.” He looked past the older boy at the steel catacomb beyond, his eyes welling with furious tears. ”You’re lying.”
“Dude, I swear to God. Ohio-class FBM—biggest one they make. We’re about thirty feet below the waterline.”
Eyes overflowing, Bobby cried, “You’re lying! You’re trying to trick me! We’re not underwater! We’re not! Let me go! I want my dad! Dad! I have to find my mom and dad! Dad! Mommeee!” The boy began to thrash wildly against his restraints.
Oh man, Sal thought. Here we go. Ignoring the stares from above, he hurriedly squirted a precious cc of Demerol solution into the kid’s IV line, wishing Lieutenant Tran were there to supervise. “Take it easy. There you go . . . there you go. Don’t worry, everything’s gonna be okay. I miss my dad, too, man.” Brightening, he said, “Hey, how ’bout some pancakes? I’ve been saving some for you, for when you woke up.”
Bobby stopped struggling. “Pancakes?” he sniffled.
“Yeah, I got ’em right here.” Sal held up a covered tray. “But you can’t have any unless you promise to be cool.”
“I will,” Bobby said desperately, starting to cry again. “I will, I swear.”
“Hey, it’s all good.” Sal passed him the tray and helped him sit up. Bobby trembled with eagerness at the sight of the food—not only pancakes, but dabs of applesauce and scrambled eggs. Everything was cold, but he didn’t care. Wolfing it down, he scarcely noticed the rapt, hungry eyes following his every mouthful, nor did he realize that all activity in the vast chamber had paused to watch him eat.
Nearly drooling himself, Sal said, “Make it last, kid.”
“How could she have gotten off the boat without you seeing her?” Kranuski said accusingly. “That girl was critical; he
r body is the only existing reservoir of Miska’s serum! Without her, we have nothing.”
Coombs shook his head. “I realize that, Rich. She’s small, it was dark. She must have just slipped out with the others. I wasn’t looking for her.”
“Are you sure you were looking at all?”
“You’re out of order, Lieutenant. Yes, I was looking. I didn’t see anything. Apparently no one else on watch did, either. All I can think is that Albemarle must have shielded her with his body.”
“Well, what happens now? If she’s gone, that means we lose the Xombies, right? I mean, without her blood to control them, we can’t take them back on board. So the mission is effectively over.” Kranuski sounded eager for this to be so.
“Not necessarily,” said Alice Langhorne, intently watching her video monitor. The image was a blurred green jumble of infrared. There would be little to see until dawn. “All it means is that she left with them. Whether she’ll stay with them is another matter, but there is clearly some residual bond there. Maybe that’s a hopeful thing—she’s obviously much more capable of independent reasoning than they are. In fact, her faculties ought to be perfectly intact. Unlike the rest of them, she’s been vaccinated with the actual enzyme, the pure concentrate, which should have preserved all her higher brain functions. If she’s at all sane, they could probably use her help, and so could we. I mean look at this.” Langhorne pointed at the poor picture quality. “How am I supposed conduct them under these conditions?”
“Come on,” blurted Kranuski. “She saw the opportunity to escape and took it. Like any caged animal. We’re never going to see her again.”
Dr. Langhorne said patiently, “I can’t predict what she’s liable to do. All we know for sure is that so far they are still on task, and until that changes, there is no reason to jump to conclusions. Lulu led them when she was alive, why not now?”
“Give me a break. You’re just stalling.”
“You heard her, Rich,” said the captain. “We’re going to stick to plan . . . for now. In the meantime, I want you and Mr. Robles to develop some contingencies for resupplying our provisions in case Langhorne’s expedition doesn’t return—food stores are at rock bottom, and those kids are going to start crashing if we don’t do something fast. I don’t need to tell you what will happen if we have any deaths on board, if that room back there becomes a nest of Xombies. The whole city is at our doorstep: restaurants, shops, warehouses—there must be something we can do in reasonable safety, even without the Blue Man Group at our disposal. Make this your top priority. I want at least three serious options on my desk by 0600. Don’t be afraid to be bold.”
“Be bold . . .” Kranuski wasn’t listening anymore. Gesturing at someone out the doorway, he said, “Captain, I’m afraid I have a very different priority right now. If you order us to stay here, against all reasonable expectation of success, and in complete disregard for ship’s safety, I must advise you I intend to follow regulations.”
Everyone froze. Suddenly the hum of the electronics seemed very loud.
“Don’t do it, Rich. This is not the time.” Coombs felt the hulking presence of Alton Webb crowding into the radio shack behind him. He was alarmed to realize that except for Dr. Langhorne, he was surrounded by Kranuski’s gang: Webb, Jack Kraus, and even a civilian, Henry Bartholomew, who blamed Coombs for the death of his nephew Jake. None of Coombs’s faithful was in sight. He said, “If I don’t need a security detail to protect me from Xombies, are you saying I need one to protect me from my own crew?”
“It’s not your crew anymore.” Richard Kranuski took a deep breath, and announced, “Commander Harvey Coombs, I hereby relieve you of command and confine you to quarters, pending charges of incompetence and gross dereliction of duty. Mr. Webb, please escort the captain to his new quarters.”
“Rich, I’m telling you to consider what you’re—” Coombs tried to leap for the intercom. There was a brief, ugly scuffle, Webb overpowering the captain and taking him in a choke hold.
“Don’t fight, you’re just making it worse for yourself,” Webb grunted.
“Oh that’s great,” said Langhorne in disgust. She turned to Kranuski: “That’s just great. Brilliant move, Caligula. What comes next? Public executions?”
Richard Kranuski turned and leaned into her face, their profiles strikingly alike, one black-haired, one white, both icily handsome and equally contemptuous of the other. “You’ve got exactly until the next tide to prove to me that you’re not a waste of space on my vessel,” he said. “Then we sail—with or without you.”
CHAPTER SIX
X GAMES
Although most representatives of the federal government and armed services acted heroically in the face of the crisis—and indeed died at their posts—there is substantial evidence that major resources were diverted to private interests at the time they were needed most to shore up the collapsing national infrastructure. Classified military records, preserved as part of the SPAM initiative, reveal hundreds of examples of elite forces providing extraordinary security and logistical support for private individuals and their families, while more vital emergency personnel were left exposed to be killed or infected in droves. While it is tempting to assume that these were merely random incidences of corruption amid the greater chaos, a pattern emerges that suggests an organized, methodical, and highly secretive program to abandon the existing government and establish an alternate one.
—The Maenad Project
“Hey, guys, guess what!” shouted Kyle Hancock from the rafters. “Captain Coombs has just been arrested! Kranuski’s in charge now!”
There was an eruption of activity in the great compartment. Some of it was cursing and complaining, some was cheering, but most of it was eager chatter of the wait-and-see variety. None of the boys had much love for Harvey Coombs—they had pretty consistently starved under his watch. The only time they had eaten well, in fact, was for the few weeks they had been in the service of the Moguls . . . and that had had its own drawbacks.
Sal DeLuca looked up from his chessboard and felt a twinge of anxiety: Not again. No wonder Tran was too busy to come aft, with another mutiny going on. How many captains were they going to run through on this boat? This made three so far. He looked across at his younger opponent, the new kid, and said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably not going to make much difference to us.”
“Check,” said Bobby, intent on the game. Sal’s plan to distract the boy from his trauma was proving almost too successful—the kid had moves.
“No you don’t,” Sal said. He skated his queen to the king’s defense, and instantly realized she would have to be sacrificed. Damn. He might as well resign right now—you couldn’t do anything without a queen. Trying to stall, he asked, “So, how’d you make it out there?”
Bobby grunted, “Huh?”
“How’d you survive so long?”
The boy pointedly ignored him. It was clear he wasn’t ready to talk about it; the force of his attention had been honed to a thin wedge, a fragile tool unsuited to other uses. Push too hard, and it would break.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” said Sal. “You want to know how I made it through? I rode my bike.”
Bobby grunted again.
“Seriously. You want to hear about it?” Sal didn’t wait for a reply. “I don’t know how they knew something was gonna happen, but on the day before New Year’s, all of us were supposed to get picked up by buses and taken under escort to the submarine plant where our dads worked. Or uncles or brothers or whatever—only immediate family. Just get on a bus with no explanation and no girls allowed. But I missed the bus! My dad and I were kind of living our separate lives, and I wasn’t home a lot. We had different schedules and really didn’t meet up much, especially over vacation. I never even got his message. I was heavy into BMX, and used to ride my bike a lot between East Greenwich and Wickford to visit my girlfriend. The terrain there is excellent—there’s a lot of rugged co
untry. I was training for the freestyle event at this year’s X Games. Anyway, we went to a New Year’s Eve party down around Narragansett, but then Wendy got a headache and wanted to go home, so we left early, even before the countdown. I was kind of pissed, but it was her car, you know? She didn’t even want to stay over at my place, even though we would have had the whole house to ourselves.
“Wendy hardly said anything all the way home. That’s what sucks—I didn’t know it was the last time I’d ever see her, so I didn’t even kiss her good night, just got my bike out of her car and that was it. Last thing I saw was her taillights going down the hill, with the sound of people yelling and horns honking and fireworks all over the place. I remember thinking, ‘Happy New Year—yeah right.’
“I went in the house, nuked a frozen burrito, and turned on the TV. It was only a few minutes after midnight, so I figured I could still catch some of the celebrations—New Year’s Rockin’ Eve or whatever. But that was the first sign that something was messed up: Most channels were either dead air or ‘experiencing technical difficulties.’ The rest were showing old reruns. I could not believe it. Dude, it was like, ‘Is this the worst New Year’s Eve ever?’ I thought about calling Wendy on her cell but just went to bed instead. I was pretty wasted.
“The next morning I woke up with a pillow over my head and a wicked headache. I don’t know if it was more from the hangover or from the noise—there were car horns and sirens and car alarms going off all night. It was still going on. And we live in a pretty quiet area usually, a lot of officer housing. I got cleaned up and took some ibuprofin, then I noticed there were about ten messages on the answering machine, so I hit the button. It was my dad.”
All at once, Sal couldn’t speak. It was maddening. He wanted so bad to be over this, but he knew that if he said one more word, he would start crying again. Come on, he thought, pinching the back of his hand hard enough to leave a welt. You can’t keep doing this, it’s ridiculous. He’s better off dead—handle it!
Xombies: Apocalypticon Page 5
