Xombies: Apocalypticon

by Walter Greatshell

  Bobby Rubio sits down to wait.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  XMAS

  “Sir, I’ve got traffic. Very close—under a thousand yards, bearing three one oh.”

  “That’s inland!” Kranuski bolted from his stateroom and rushed to the sonar suite. “What’s their heading?” he demanded, buttoning his shirt. On the flat-panel monitors, he could see the familiar saw-toothed waves of different small-craft signatures.

  “They’re upriver,” Phil Tran said. “Reception’s bad in these shallows, but I’d say they’re idling or moving away. At least four—no, five contacts: three light diesels, low rpms, and now two high-speed impellers—probably Jet Skis or something similar. I’m catching a lot of support activity, too. Sounds like heavy machinery and general deck noise. Somebody’s got a regular little marina going out there. I guess we know who set those fires.”

  “Sir?” Jack Kraus called. “Topside watch reports smoke and sounds of organized activity, bearing three one oh.”

  Kranuski went to the control room and raised the periscope. The mouths of two rivers opened into this uppermost arm of the bay: the Providence River, immediately astern, which passed through downtown and was where they had seen the signal fires, and the Seekonk River, which lay half a mile east. Getting his bearings, he followed the contours of the nearby shore eastward to where it cut inland at the mouth of the Seekonk. Around that bend, rising above a line of trees, he could see a thin plume of smoke.

  “Goddammit,” he said. “All right, let’s be ready for them. All hands to battle stations. Mr. Robles, muster an armed detail and post them on deck. Make sure they look as intimidating as possible.”

  “Yes, sir. Uh, sir, the Moguls cleaned us out good. Except for those ceremonial carbines and a few personal sidearms, we’re down to slingshots.”

  “I know that! I said try to look intimidating! Make more rifles out of broomsticks if you have to. And don’t knock slingshots—remember Davy and Goliath. Here, take my gun. Mr. Webb, you rig the outboard and organize a quick recon patrol around the point so we at least know what we’re up against.”

  They didn’t go to the submarine.

  At the mouth of the river, just beyond the interstate highway bridge, was a flotilla of two massive cargo barges, each one half the length of a football field, each with its own tugboat. One was a junkyard pyramid assembled from big metal shipping containers—tractor trailers stacked in colorful tiers like so many Legos, with labels like MAERSK and SEA LAND, sharing deck space with the enormous crane that had put them there. The other barge was more striking, its tall white superstructure resembling that of an old-time riverboat, including smokestacks and paddle wheel, though the latter appeared to be purely ornamental; it didn’t touch the water. Other amphibious vehicles were there, too, as well as small watercraft of all kinds.

  As the duck boat drew closer, Sal could see that holes had been cut into some of the cargo boxes, making jack-o’-lantern-crude windows, and that there were lights inside and fuming stovepipes on top. Some of these perforated containers were homes for people, not cargo. And there were other, weirder shantytown structures: faulty towers banged together out of plywood and corrugated metal, with blue plastic port-a-johns jutting on planks over the water.

  Yes, people were living out here by the hundreds, perhaps thousands, packed together like junkyard bees in a rusty hive. Sal could smell them: mingled odors of raw sewage, trash, and fryer grease. He could see and hear them, too. Some shot hoops while others called out bets from windows and still others hooted down from rooftop deck chairs, cracking beers. A better life than that aboard the submarine, clearly—this was a well-functioning caravan, a whole floating village, a Mongol horde. A Mogul horde.

  As they passed under the bridge, and the view opened up, Sal was startled to see two more duck boats plowing toward them, heading inland. The crews catcalled and made crude gestures at each other as they passed. The sudden sense of relative normalcy, of routine human traffic, was overwhelming. Sal hadn’t felt this way since first catching sight of . . . of . . .

  Thule, he thought apprehensively. The Mogul base.

  “So who do you guys work for?” he asked.

  “Work for? We work for ourselves, son. We’re independent contractors.” Marcus seemed offended at the very thought.

  Sal held his tongue. Could it be they weren’t connected to the Moguls after all? Or maybe they just didn’t know they were. Coombs and the Navy men hadn’t known—not until they got to Thule. Feeling a buzz of possibility, Sal asked, “Are you all refugees?”

  “Lifers, boy! Reapers! Skinwalker Platoon, Rodeo Zulu Tango! The one and only Hopalong Cassidy Phalanx out of Huntsville, Alabama.”

  “Is that the Army?”

  “Is that the Army? Shee-it! That’s the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines, rolled into one! That’s the full and complete membership of the Huntsville Prison Rodeo Association! We’re George Washington, brother! We’re Thomas fuckin’ Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Napoleon Bonaparte, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, and Lewis and Clark! We’re Paul Bunyan, Wild Bill Hickok, and John Henry! We’re the Founding Fathers, y’unnerstan? Forget your dead white men, we the dudes they gonna write history books about, the ones who redraw the maps and make up the laws. While everybody else just accepts the way things are, we make up reality to suit us. This is our country now, and we its new hee-roes! When men get back around to building monuments, they’ll be dedicating them to us. When they name all the new states and territories, they’ll be naming them after us! Naw, they won’t even have to name them, because we already done it. Look around you, boy—you ain’t in New England no more. On that side of the river is the great state of Shaka Zulu, New Africa, granted by solemn treaty to the Mau-Mau Brotherhood. On the eastern shore you got the Mexican paradise of Aztlan, laid claim to by our brothers in La Raza. And we ain’t leavin’ out the white folk: White Pride staked out some sweet reservations for y’all down around Connecticut and Long Island—the Aryan Evangelical Co-Prosperity Sphere. And this here’s the People’s Expedition of the New United States! Uncle Spam has granted us charter to all the lands we can claim . . . so long as we keep up our end of the bargain.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Shit, boy, work with me! Don’t you even know why you’re here? To gather weekly shipments of supplies and deliver them up to you folks for pickup. SPAM, it’s called—hell, we only been doin’ it all up and down the whole damn eastern seaboard. Government handles the rest, using cargo planes, submarines, ships, and whatnot. It ain’t no damn secret. What did you think them signal fires were for, a weenie roast? When we saw that big-ass submarine come humpin’ up the channel, we damn sure figured that’s what y’all was here for—’less there’s some other submarine we don’t know about.”

  Sal shrugged, heart pounding.

  “Then you folks take it all up north somewhere, Valhalla, God knows where that is—we just call it the North Pole. Whatever they’re using as the provisional capital until they can come back, jump-start the country again.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I hear tell they got women up there to use as breeding stock. Must be right nice, considering all the goodies we send ’em.”

  Sal couldn’t help asking, “Why do you do it?”

  “Yeah,” Kyle said. “What do you get out of it?”

  “Same as you. Manifest destiny! We the new colonials, man—we building a new nation, all pulling together. And it ain’t just a one-way street: They provide us with logistical support, mapping out the best pickings, updatin’ us on the latest research—that’s how come we here at all. Couldn’t hardly set foot on dry land before. Now we got free run of the place, and it’s only gonna get better. Soon they’ll have a vaccine for Agent X, then everything will start up again . . . with the deck reshuffled in our favor.”

  Sal thought Voodooman’s mythologizing had the sound of something predigested and regurgitated whole, a canned pep talk like those self-help tapes his mom use
d to listen to in the car. A mantra to ward off dread. But perhaps he was wrong about the dread—these men all seemed to be having the time of their lives. And why wouldn’t they be? Unexpectedly freed from prison, given the run of this all-you-can-grab Armageddon—it was like hitting the jackpot.

  He blurted, “Doesn’t it scare you, though?”

  “What?”

  “That it might never happen. That all this might be just pie in the sky?”

  “Pie hail. It’s our cut of the American pie, boy—the American dream. Forty million acres and a mule. Property is power. Power of ownership—that’s the story of the human race. People come and go, but real estate is forever. We’re taking ownership of these new territories so that when Agent X runs its course, and the scientists hand down their cure, we’ll have staked our claims. Australia was founded by prisoners; this’ll be our homeland, our Botany Bay.”

  But how do you know you can trust them? Sal wanted to ask.

  The duck boat approached the nearest barge, the cargo carrier, its flank looming above like a rust-streaked cliff topped with barbed wire. One of the men shouted, “Boat Three with fresh fish. Open up!” and a door cranked open, lowering on chains like a drawbridge. When it was at the level of their gunwales, the crew tied up as though to a dock, and the boys were ushered up the ramp. Looking inside, Sal felt as if he was entering fantasyland.

  First, he and the boys were greeted by an equal number of dour-faced, heavily armed men—men who nevertheless were dressed in the most outlandish pimp costumes, tricked out from head to foot in garish formalwear usually reserved for Broadway musicals and Mardi Gras parades, all feathers, spangles, glitter, and glitz.

  “What the hell is this?” Sal said under his breath.

  Kyle replied, “Looks like a Halloween party.”

  Ostentatiously decorated sombreros and chaps, tuxedoes and tails, maroon top hats, Dick Tracy fedoras, fancy cowboy hats with bands of silver skulls, toreador suits in blinding colors and patterns—plush purple and green velvet with linings of ruffled silk, snow leopard and zebra patterns—striped zoot suits and bolo ties, bloodred snakeskin boots inlaid with turquoise. And bling!—massive jewel-encrusted rings and gold chains, Cartier studs, sapphire pendants belonging to the czars, priceless museum pieces from Aztec coffers or Egyptian tombs.

  The men themselves were not as fancy as their couture, resembling a post-office billboard’s worth of sketchy characters and ugly mugs, FBI’s Most Wanted, their thick necks and bald heads marked with scars and thug tattoos. Beneath their expensive clothes and cologne they reeked of sweat and machine oil. But they were well fed, and at least they weren’t dressed in pulsating Xombie flesh—for the moment Sal was grateful for any trace of civilization.

  “I don’t think we gonna meet the dress code,” whispered Kyle, dazzled in spite of himself. He had always been vain about his appearance, shoplifting designer clothes and primping in front of the mirror so long that his brother Russell used to joke, You worse than having a sister, man. The thought of his lost brother was like a sucker punch to the gut.

  “You guys always dress this way?” Sal asked.

  “Pert much ever night, after work,” said Voodooman.

  “Why’s that?” asked Todd.

  “Naught else to do . . . and because we can. Keeps the blues away. Out here, we like to make every night a party.”

  Freddy asked, “There’s gonna be a party?”

  “Hail yes! We observe all the formalities in this organization—gotta keep up all them good old traditions. This here’s Big Rock Candy Mountain! You boys ain’t never been to a party till you been to a lockup hoedown. Ain’t a lot of fun left in this world, but one thing us saddle pimps know how to do is party!”

  Sal said, “Uh, sorry, sir, I’m not sure we’re really up for a party. We’re pretty beat. We lost some friends, and it’s been a rough day.”

  “That’s when you need to get likkered-up the most! But don’t you fellas worry, the party ain’t gonna get goin’ till after sundown. You got a few hours to rest up yet.”

  Working up his nerve, Sal said firmly, “Well, that’s just it—we were thinking we need to get back to the boat. We’re way overdue, and they have to be wondering what happened to us by now. If they think we didn’t make it, they might sail without us.”

  “Don’t you worry, son—your rust bucket ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Hail no! We got ’em in the sack. Ain’t but one way in and out of this bay, and we control the out. Trust me. Now come on, let’s get you squared away.”

  The boys were directed to wait while the crew from the duck boat went into a clear plastic tent. Once they were inside, the enclosure was flooded with purified oxygen from a large tank, and immediately their Xombie leathers began to relax, turning pink and bloody, sagging off them like so much raw meat.

  “Ohhh, sick, dude,” Todd remarked under his breath.

  The men effortlessly stepped free, scooping the shed hides into steel drums. Removing the limp sacks of their helmets, they revealed gleefully sweaty faces marked with numerous gang markings: scars, brands, purplish prison tattoos. Having seen the deckhands, the boys were less surprised than they would otherwise have been, no longer expecting from the men’s country twang to see a bunch of redneck hillbillies. For the most part, these were ghetto warriors, pimped-up vaqueros and part-time buffalo soldiers—convicts before they were ever cowboys.

  The lids were cinched down tight, and the men emerged to be hosed off, gratefully shedding layers of protective gear and sweaty hazmat coveralls.

  Suddenly someone shouted, “Duck!” and Sal spun to see several wet Xombies leaping onto the ramp. They had been clinging like leeches beneath the duck boat.

  He and the other boys scattered, screaming, but the men on the barge were ready. In an instant the creatures were roped, gaffed, and pinned to the deck, then their limbs and heads hewn from their bodies. The loose parts were bagged and tied off as if for some future purpose.

  Carpet remnants, Sal thought. Scrap leather. He watched, revolted, as those bags—as well as Lulu and the captive Xombies at the stern—were hoisted away by crane.

  “Fun’s over, gentlemen,” said Voodooman. Out of his flesh suit, wearing shorts and flip-flops, he was revealed to be a knobby-kneed older black man with gray in his beard. “Go on up.”

  They were led around the deck to where a rope ladder dangled from the mountain of shipping containers. There were more ladders up to the higher tiers. It reminded Sal of pictures he’d seen of an Indian pueblo in New Mexico.

  Voodooman said, “We pull these ladders up after dark, so you don’t need to worry none about Harpies kissin’ on you in the night.”

  The boys climbed to the next level, following as the man briskly walked them around the first shelf of the pyramid. It was like the sundeck of a very unruly cruise ship, littered with deck chairs and sun umbrellas and just plain litter. They passed a port-a-john on a plank and were told to remember its location. At intervals there were holes cut in the metal floor, and at one of these the boys were directed to go below.

  “Just like on the submarine,” Kyle said, climbing down the ladder.

  “Yeah.”

  It wasn’t quite the same as the sub though, didn’t have that subterranean heaviness, that density that always made Sal feel like he was locked inside a bank vault. This felt more like a barn: stinky but well ventilated, and not nearly as claustrophobic.

  First they descended into a long shipping container loaded to the ceiling with cases of soda pop. Open at one end, it faced into a fluorescent-lit corridor under the pyramid, and they were taken down this narrow passage to another container—a bare box about the size of a bus and nearly as comfortable, with dozens of hammocks and folding cots, a hundred-gallon barrel of water, soap, rolls of paper towels, and a washtub. The perforated walls rang with raucous sounds of men.

  “This is my crew’s bunkhouse here,” said Voodooman. “We’ll let you
use it for now, just until you get fixed up. All I ask is that you don’t bring any food in, on account of the rats.”

  “Rats?” squeaked Freddy.

  “What food?” asked Kyle.

  “What food?” The man seemed to find this amusing. “When you get hungry, just head on down the passage—I’m sure you’ll find something.”

  He left them alone, and the boys considered their situation. It was all so overwhelming, and they were so exhausted after the long, terrifying, tragic day, that they barely had the energy to discuss the situation.

  “What do you think?” Sal asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” said Todd, yawning. “Looks like they don’t know much about us or the sub, which is good.”

  “I agree. They obviously think the boat’s here to hook up with them and get supplies for some kind of bogus ‘provisional government.’ Sounds a lot like MoCo to me.”

  “Maybe it’s true,” Kyle offered. “Did you ever think of that? That would explain why Coombs brought us here in the first place, and why the crew mutinied.”

  The boys lay stunned as this possibility sank in.

  “Shit, man, you’re right.”

  As they were mulling this over, one by one, the exhausted boys fell asleep.

  On one level, Lulu was aware of her body being rudely stripped from the jagged spike upon which it had been impaled, her gaping, shredded body cavity huge and drafty as a hollow tree. She felt herself being bound up with baling wire and bagged in coarse burlap, then tossed and banged around like a sack of bulk mail. While this was going on, she remained perfectly inert, as immune to rough handling as a rag doll, her consciousness dwelling elsewhere, out there, up where the stars pooled, carried along on tides of gravity and time. But it was not the immensely distant phenomena that held her attention. There was something else going on up there, something much closer to home, close and drawing nearer every minute—an amorphous paisley shape in the void, white on black, fuzzy as smudged chalk on a blackboard and crude as a child’s drawing of a tadpole: a bulbous head with a long, trailing tail. Invisible to the naked eye, and insignificantly miniscule by astronomical standards, this eyeless object seemed to stare right back into Lulu’s mind as though shining a spotlight on the back of her skull—no, not on her, but on Earth itself, the whole planet. Fixing upon it with the obsessive fertility of a sperm contemplating an egg. It was coming, this thing, not directly but on a wide, looping intercept, using the giant planets Saturn and Jupiter as slings to multiply its force. It was coming. How she knew this she didn’t know, nor why. The knowledge came unsought, delivered upon her like an unsigned threat. What did it mean? It occupied the space of dreams, but whether this was dream, vision, sheer figment of her imagination, or impending truth, Lulu didn’t know . . . or care. She was barely capable of caring. To her it was merely interesting—an abstraction like everything else.