Xombies: Apocalypticon
Page 28
Born again, Sal was called back to the steel womb from which he had come, to the place they were all being shepherded: back to the boat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I AM THE WALRUS
The next day they went for a walk. It was easier getting out of the cylinder than it had been getting in; turned out there was a small padlocked door at the base, hidden behind the bushes. Bobby felt funny, but for once he wasn’t the least bit afraid.
Downtown Providence was dead, totally deserted, and as they strolled down Fountain Street, Bobby and Joe had to tread carefully over broken glass and other wreckage that had issued from burnt-out shells of buildings. Most structures were still intact, however, particularly two enormous masks of comedy and tragedy, which had been fashioned out of steel mesh and hung above the sidewalk. The masks contained black nests of bones—the charred remains of many women.
Circling back, they came to a massive brick edifice, the Providence Place Mall, which had been designed to resemble the mills that once dominated the city skyline, and it did, overshadowing even the great marble State House. The mall overlooked an artificial pond, and actually straddled its polluted tributary canal, which meandered sludgily under an archway beneath the soaring windows of the food court.
The old man was whistling a familiar tune, “This Land Is Your Land,” when they saw the horsemen.
There were four of them, tattooed berserkers on blinkered police horses, and they burst galloping from a hidden tunnel by the skating rink. There were vehicles there, too, and other, more monstrous beings on foot: steel-stitched grotesqueries charging from every direction.
Man and boy didn’t move, standing their ground as the horde swept down upon them.
“STOP WHERE YOU ARE,” croaked an amplified voice. “SURRENDER AND YOU WON’T BE HARMED.”
The boy was still not afraid; he found all this very interesting. There was an unearthly beauty to the scene: those brilliant horses and riders, bodies glowing like molten metal, and the flesh-armored infantry glimmering through their seams like banked coals. They burned with life—it was consuming them from within as though they were walking, talking jack-o’-lanterns. Which in a sense they were. If nothing was done about it, they would soon burn out and turn to mush. So sad.
One of them had a megaphone. “I AM MAJOR KASIM BENDIS OF THE NEW UNITED STATES. KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM.”
Surrounded, covered by dozens of automatic weapons, Joe and Bobby stood in the center of a shrinking circle of long, bladed pikes. The sight of all those sharp points triggered a knotty feeling in Bobby’s stomach—a thing he realized was fear. It was like remembering something from long ago, a regression to infancy: the forgotten dread of potty training or something equally ridiculous. He could only grin in embarrassment.
The leader handed off his megaphone and approached them. “Uri Miska, I presume?” the man said, keeping his distance. He was a tall, handsome man, with wavy black hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. “You can’t imagine how much this means to me, finally meeting the great man in the flesh. Father of the Mogul Cooperative, chief engineer of the Maenad nanocyte, architect of the Xombie apocalypse—the list goes on and on. But you don’t like to take credit for that, do you?
“You probably don’t recognize me, but then I’m not surprised—Colonel Sanders probably didn’t know who plucked his chickens, either. I’ve served your organization for a number of years now. A private contractor, one might say, strictly freelance. But it’s not really your organization anymore, is it? Not since Sandoval took over the project. Is that why you unleashed the plague? Personal revenge? Did you think you could just vanish into the blue? That’s an interesting condition you have, by the way—blends right in. Very clever. As a soldier, I appreciate the value of camouflage.
“But maybe you don’t need camouflage. No one walks in the open anymore unless they have confidence in their own immunity. Look at us, burdened with the crude instruments of our resistance. Now look at you: no guns, no protective gear, acting like nothing could be more natural than taking a pleasant stroll on a sunny Sunday morning. It’s obvious that you’ve found a cure—and kept it for yourself.
“Well, the time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things: of lack of sex since Agent X, and lonely buggerings. That’s the New World as we know it, Uraeus, and I am the walrus.”
Averting his eyes, the old man said, “Yes, yes, I know you. You’re the handyman—the one who will fix anything for the right price. I know they bought you, just like they tried to buy me. Now they want to steal what they couldn’t buy. But I tell you what I told them: Everything comes to he who waits.”
“I’ve waited long enough,” said Bendis. “This is a barter economy, so I’m offering you a trade: your Tonic for the boy’s life.”
Bendis gave a signal, and suddenly a noose was around Bobby’s throat, dragging him backward.
Hemmed in by a ring of spears, the old man just shook his grizzled head in disappointment. He looked broken and pale. Very pale—in fact, white. And as the blue pigment evaporated, Joe Blue’s face seemed to fill out, it’s withered features smoothing and hardening until he resembled another person entirely . . . until he was Uri Miska. In the flesh.
“Can’t you people take a hint?”
All at once, everything stopped. The Reapers froze, quivering in place as though their Xombie suits had suddenly turned to stone. They couldn’t move. Muffled cries of alarm could be heard from their helmets.
Then, haltingly, they began to dance.
Jerking around like clumsy marionettes, they formed pairs and tottered from foot to foot, making stiff curtsies and pas de deux. Grabbing Bendis and his mercenaries, they launched into a violent tango, twisting the protesting men’s arms from their sockets and snapping their spines. Dragged from his horse, Bendis realized his mistake and managed to pull the pin of a hand grenade. It went off at his belt, blowing bits of man and horse in all directions, kicking the party into high gear. The street was a monster’s ball, with men’s harrowing screams as the orchestra.
Stooping over the major’s mangled body, Uri Miska said, “Silly to steal what is freely given.” He leaned close, whispering into the other’s ear.
Barely alive, Bendis nodded frantically, desperate to listen, to cooperate, until his face suddenly contorted in a violent spasm. Something peculiar was going on inside his ear canal: a long snakelike thing had emerged from Miska’s mouth and was burrowing its way down his eustachian tube, cutting off Bendis’s airway and patching his circulatory system to Miska’s. A joint umbilical cord, mixing blue blood with red.
In a moment, it was done.
Standing up, Miska wiped his mouth and went to find the boy. Bobby Rubio was unharmed, sitting at the curb with a dreamy expression—the rope still around his neck. Miska took it off and led him down to the waterfront promenade under the mall. The stilted dance continued behind them, the screams occasionally punctuated with an explosion or random crackle of gunfire.
There were fires on the river; some fleeing sentry had lit the braziers. Others would come now that the message was out: Miska Was Here.
“What’s that?” the boy asked.
“WaterFire,” the Blue Man said.
There was an unusual boat there—a long black gondola. Taking the boy down to the dock, Miska helped him aboard and told him to lie low. Then he untied the line and pushed the boat in the direction of the current.
“Aren’t you coming?” Bobby cried, sitting up.
“I can’t,” Miska said. “I’m sorry.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
As the boat slipped out of sight beneath a low bridge, the old man held up his arm and called back, “Go forth and multiply.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS
“Attention Virginia-class submarine. This is a U.S. naval vessel under the command of Admiral Harvey Coombs. Please acknowledge.”
There was a long pause. Th
en a sharp, hostile voice: “What is your vessel’s call sign?”
“We have no call sign. This is a decommissioned ship salvaged for an emergency mission, code name SPAM. We have no official existence, our orders are classified, and we are operating under conditions of strict radio silence. This communication is a breach of operational security, so let’s keep it short: If you represent the interests of the United States of America, then we are here to offer whatever assistance and support you may require.”
There was no answer for long minutes, just a quiet wash of static.
Then the voice said, “You guys got any food over there?”
“We’ve got whatever you need,” said Coombs. “Come and get it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Walter Greatshell has lived in five countries and worked many odd jobs across America, including painting houses, writing for a local newspaper, managing a quaint old movie house, and building nuclear submarines. For now, he has settled in Providence, Rhode Island, with his wife, Cindy; son, Max; and cat, Reuben. Visit Walter’s website at www.waltergreatshell.com.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE - RODEO ZULU TANGO
CHAPTER TWO - DEAD SEA
CHAPTER THREE - WATERFIRE
CHAPTER FOUR - NANTUCKET SLEIGH RIDE
CHAPTER FIVE - BLUE MAN GROUP
CHAPTER SIX - X GAMES
CHAPTER SEVEN - XIBALBA
CHAPTER EIGHT - FIELD TRIP
CHAPTER NINE - NUBS
CHAPTER TEN - THE UNDERGROUND
CHAPTER ELEVEN - RIDERS ON THE STORM
CHAPTER TWELVE - GANO STREET
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE FOUNDING FATHER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - HOPALONG CASSIDY PHALANX
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - BOBBY RUBIO
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - XMAS
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - THE INFERNAL MACHINE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - SNAIL TRAILS
CHAPTER NINETEEN - PHOSPHORYLATION
CHAPTER TWENTY - CLASS WARFARE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - BLUE SUEDE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - THE WHOLE ENCHILADA
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - SNAKE PIT
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - OCTOPUS’S GARDEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - I AM THE WALRUS
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR