Apocalypso x-3

by Walter Greatshell

  No one seemed to hear, and Ray decided to try CPR. He remembered there was some song you could use to time chest compressions-was it “Stayin’ Alive”? Suddenly, something hit him like a wrecking ball. The force knocked him a good ten feet. Stunned, he looked back to see a strange figure straddling Ashleigh’s helpless body.

  It was the girls’ dog-the ugly pig-dog.

  Only now the animal looked almost human. It had human hands and a childish human face, its skin mottled pink and black, and its eyes two dark marbles. Those bulging, manic eyes fixed on Ray, and he shrank in horror to realize he was alone, unarmed, and trapped in a fence with this grotesque hybrid monstrosity.

  But the thing was not interested in him. As he watched, it cradled Ashleigh’s limp body in its hands and leaned down as if to kiss her. To Ray’s horror, it did kiss her, the dreaded Xombie kiss. Black demon lips cupped pink human ones and proceeded to suck face… but then something unusual happened:

  Instead of collapsing, Ashleigh’s chest swelled with air. At once the girl coughed to life, not as a hellish Maenad but as a normal human female. Her attacker let her go and spit something on the ground: Ashleigh’s bubble gum. The creature had saved her from choking.

  Having done its good deed, the dog-thing now came for Ray. From its maniacal face, he knew there was no such benevolence in store for him, and he scrambled to escape, slip-sliding on the dewy grass. Dead I’m dead I’m so dead.

  Just before the weird thing reached him, a pinpoint of red light skittered across its body, and it started coming apart. Ray hit the ground, thinking, Snipers! Whatever that laser sight touched magically exploded as if spring-loaded. Chunks flew from the dog-boy’s head and torso; its legs snapped like twigs. As the creature went down, incendiaries pelted the grass, flaring white-hot. It writhed in the fire, curling backward and inside out as it tried to flee its own burning flesh.

  Suddenly a voice yelled, “Come on!” and a hand jerked Ray to his feet. It was Todd. He ran for the main gate, pulling Ray with him. There was an EMT vehicle there, a gleaming white ambulance with Sandoval at the wheel. He was holding a laser pointer.

  “Wait!” Ray cried. “I have to get Ashleigh!”

  “You can’t!”

  “Yes!” Ray yanked free and ran to Ashleigh. She was sitting with her head down, hugging her legs. As gently yet urgently as he could, Ray said, “Ashleigh, we’re leaving now. Come on, get up.”

  “No,” she said dully.

  Suddenly, dozens of men began pouring out of the State House as if roused by an alarm. They rounded the building and took shooting positions on the hillside, preparing to unleash a hail of death upon the field. Ray knew he was as good as dead, trapped in plain sight.

  “Ashleigh, please!”

  “No! Stop!”

  The guards were well drilled, adjusting their gun sights for perfect accuracy. They didn’t want to waste any ammunition-that stuff didn’t grow on trees. As they focused all their attention on their targets, they didn’t notice the earth itself rising around them.

  A profusion of weird black spores uncoiled from the mud, spreading and growing, branching outward to form a web of vines that encompassed the entire hill.

  For weeks the black sludge had been migrating underground, creeping through soil and pipes and groundwater as it converged on the capitol. This living tar was the pure Maenad essence-the boiled-down lees from a million cooked Xombies. Impervious to fire, these tough, long-chain fibers formed wormlike tendrils, exaggerated fingers tipped with rudimentary sense organs that spread faster than the most pernicious weed.

  The snipers were oblivious to the wild activity around their feet. As the strands of dark matter proliferated, they also thickened and toughened, pulsing from within with vital juices. Fat globules formed at their junctions, splitting open like fibrous gourds to release vertical shoots that expanded to resemble hideous giant mushrooms, vaguely humanoid blobs that rose amid the oblivious snipers and jostled them for space.

  Some of the men began noticing that they had been infiltrated by a second army, a gray, faceless corps, but before they could speak, the net contracted and engulfed them. Such contractions were happening all over the field, shloop! shloop! shloop! like coral polyps snapping shut, until the siege became evident to all, and wholesale panic broke out.

  Scores of men disappeared, and for a moment the State House lawn was a garden of heaving human pumpkins, fast turning from red to blue. Then the vines relaxed, and all the new Xombies emerged.

  Witnessing this, Ray said, “Ashleigh, come on.” He tried to bodily lift her, but she was like a rag doll, deadweight. Todd joined him, and together they picked her up. As they carried her toward the truck, Ashleigh suddenly looked at Ray with clear eyes. Her expression was so challenging that he searched for some cause… and instantly found it. She had torn the fail-safe tab from her vest. The detonator cord was in her fist; all she had to do was pull.

  The instant she knew he saw, Ashleigh yanked the cord.

  Ray dropped her, and screamed, “TODD! RUN!”

  Taken by surprise, Todd was slow to react, but this time Ray grabbed him, and together they bolted for the gate. They could hear Ashleigh laughing behind them, her voice cut short as the entire face of the mall turned white and a wave of scorching heat blasted their backs. Blinding fireballs rained down on the truck as Todd and Ray dove for cover inside. Fran and Deena were waiting; they hauled the boys up and slapped out their burning clothes as the truck lurched into motion.

  “Woo-hooo!” Sandoval howled. “I loves me some fireworks!”

  PART III

  Chesapeake

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  POWWOW

  Irode in a pickup truck squeezed between Alice Langhorne and Ed Albemarle. Alice was driving. Bobby Rubio sat on my lap. The back of the truck was full of Xombies, crammed together like sharecroppers during the dust bowl. All of us were dirty and torn.

  Leaving Loveville behind, we left with it the last of our humanity. All that remained was a vestigial sense of loss, as if we had awakened from a beautiful dream. A dream America that never existed except in childhood fantasies, now blown threadbare. The human world was gone; all that was left was an incantatory kick.

  As we passed a weathered flag on a car dealer’s pole, a low, gruff voice started singing, “Oh-h say can you see, by the dawn’s early light… ”

  It was Albemarle. Big Ed Albemarle, who had barely begun to speak since his Resurrection as a Xombie, was singing.

  For a moment we just listened, the lines of our faces traced in grime. Then, softly, tentatively, we sang along. After a minute or so, the feeling passed, and we stopped.

  The submarine was just as we had left it. We took her back to blue water and dove deep, licking our wounds. We stayed down there a long time, months perhaps, wrapped in darkness and silence. Then we heard something that woke us up: the throbbing of human hearts. A reservoir of hot blood suspended in the cold sea.

  It was another submarine, passing right over our heads. Not the French boat. This was an American submarine-Virginia-class.

  There was no discussion; we had to get them. As the crew set about surfacing the boat, the senior officers dressed in the most official-looking costumes they could find. Donning his never-worn admiral regalia, Coombs went to the bridge and turned on the ULF secure channel:

  “Attention, Virginia: This is a message for Commander Arnold Parminter, from Admiral Harvey Coombs. We are at the rendezvous point, awaiting contact.”

  There was no reply. Coombs was reluctant to repeat the message, not wanting to raise undue suspicion. It was a risk to broadcast his position at all, which in ordinary circumstances would have been a serious breach of operational security-just as answering his message would be. Submariners were trained to be cautious; they didn’t call it the Silent Service for nothing. But circumstances had changed-times were desperate, human voices scarce. One might reasonably expect a slight relaxation of military formality.

  Finally,
a wary voice cut through the static: “Sorry, Admiral, we’re having a bit of a debate here about protocol. Please identify your boat again?”

  “My boat has no official identity because it was decommissioned and secretly refitted for a classified operation known as SPAM-Sensitive Personnel and Materials. The SPAM mission no longer exists, but we are still custodians of the cargo, which includes several hundred tons of food and other basic provisions.”

  “And why are you sharing this information with us?”

  “You’re Americans. You and your vessel are a vital strategic resource. It’s our duty to assist you in any way we can.”

  “What is it you want from us?”

  “Nothing at all, other than whatever information you can provide us in locating other survivors like yourselves, either military or civilian. Anyone we can help, or who can help us. We are very much in need of a submarine port facility where we can overhaul our vessel.”

  “Join the club. From our experience, all shore facilities are… unsafe.”

  “Then we need to talk about that.”

  There was a pause, and Phil Tran whispered, “They’ve locked torpedoes on our radio signal.”

  Coombs said, “Be aware that if you fire on us, we will fire back. We have torpedoes loaded and preset. But we didn’t come here to fight; we would rather join forces with you.”

  “Sounds like you may need us more than we need you.”

  “What have you got to lose?”

  “Our starry-eyed optimism? Cut the shit, man. We heard the Mogul Cooperative was out of business.”

  “It is. We are not MoCo.”

  “And we just have to take your word on that.”

  “It cuts both ways.”

  “Life’s a bitch, is that it? All right, stand by; I’m giving the order to surface. Here’s how it’s going to work: Upon visual confirmation of our positions, we will each dispatch a runabout with our executive officers for debriefing. If everything you say checks out, we will then heave to and all have a big powwow together. If not, or you do anything that makes me or my crew nervous, you will be treated as a menace and destroyed. Are these conditions acceptable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s proceed.”

  The formalities were discharged without incident, and the captains arranged to meet over a celebratory meal in the larger submarine-ours.

  Captain Parminter’s entourage came with good appetites; they had heard how well their XO was treated during his visit. He had made a full report of the mysterious boat, mentioning that it had undergone extensive modifications at the hands of its largely civilian crew, many of them teenagers, but the Virginia’s people still weren’t prepared for what they saw when they stepped aboard the USS No-Name.

  “Oh my God,” said Parminter, shaking his head.

  The exterior of the ship, its matte black anechoic skin, was spray painted with colorful graffiti, most conspicuously a garish pirate emblem high up on the fairwater: a grinning skull with two crossed hammers. It looked like a giant tattoo.

  Belowdecks, things only got worse. “What is this,” Parminter muttered, “The Fun House?” He wasn’t exaggerating; the boat was dark and cold, its steel corridors rotten with thick formations of an unusual substance, some sort of blue lichen or moss that was causing all the paint to peel.

  “Why?” Coombs asked. “Having fun?”

  “What is this stuff?”

  “Oh, that? That’s… mildew.”

  “Mildew?” Parminter would clearly have to have a word with his XO for not including this in his report. He had never seen anything like it in his life. The stuff was velvety to the touch, slightly luminous in the shadows. It smelled strongly of iodine. “My God. Are you serious?” Every metal surface bulged with this organic, fungal padding, turning linear corridors into leviathan guts. The mechanical made flesh.

  But his men were starving, and what they saw next shocked them out of their dismay.

  The crew’s mess had been cleared except for one table. The room was dim, lit by a single lamp, but the men could see a gorgeous table set with a blue linen tablecloth, cloth napkins, expensive silverware, and fine china decorated with the boat’s crest.

  None of that meant anything to them; what they cared about was the food.

  It looked like a fancy luau, a regular Thanksgiving feast, with enormous gourds serving as tureens, and a whole roast pig garnished with unusually large, glistening vegetables and fruit. In the center was a silver dome, and next to it a platter holding a spectacular arrangement of glossy red steamed crabs layered on a bed of lacy black seaweed. Smaller side platters were filled with mountains of gooseneck barnacles, mussels, oysters, and other hull-dwelling shellfish. There were peculiar sausages and cheeses and a wicker basket piled high with warm, crusty loaves of bread. To accompany the food was a case of fine French champagne-Bollinger-perhaps the last ever to be drunk.

  Once the men had all taken their places and the champagne had been poured, Coombs raised a glass: “To the journey.”

  “To the journey,” the guests agreed, eyes fixed on the food. They were dizzy from hunger and lack of oxygen.

  “Well, dig in.”

  The men reached for the feast… and the feast reached for them. Crabs became grasping, clawed hands; the roast pig reared up and became a headless human torso, innards flailing; veggies turned to writhing gobbets of flesh; loaves to severed limbs. As the visitors recoiled in panic, they realized they were anchored to their seats by vines of sticky living sinew. They shouted, trying to break free, but the undead tissue was immovable, tough as old tree roots. It covered the mouths of all but Parminter, silencing their screams.

  I entered the room, followed by little Bobby Rubio and a few other boys.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” cried Parminter.

  “Saving you, sir,” I said.

  “What kind of damn freak show is this? Why are you doing this to us?”

  “Because we must,” I said. “Because we’re the only ones who can.”

  “What the hell are you?”

  “Friends.”

  “Friends my ass. You’re using people as fucking live bait!” To Coombs he said, “I see how it is, Harvey: They let you live so you can help them hunt down every last straggler. You rotten bastard, you’re a traitor to the human race. And what happens when we’re all gone? Have you thought of that? Are they going to just let you sail around the world like this forever? No-then it’ll be your turn.”

  Coombs said, “I’ve already been converted.”

  “You’re not a Xombie! You’re still human!”

  “Things are not as black and white as you think. Some of us have found it’s better to be… flexible.”

  I nudged Bobby forward, since he looked the least threatening of any of us. A perfectly ordinary little kid.

  “Show ’em,” I whispered.

  Bobby held up his right hand to make a fist. With a crackling sound, the fingers merged together, forming a smooth ball.

  “Holy shit!” Parminter said.

  The ball now began to expand, swelling larger and larger, pulsating like bubbling porridge. While this was happening, Bobby’s face suddenly crumpled inward, withering like a prune, as if his entire head was being sucked into his neck. A moment later, the swollen ball of his hand unfurled into a thing very much like a face. It quickly became Bobby’s face-Bobby’s whole head. The shrunken bulb that had been his head now divided into five lobes and blossomed into a perfect human hand atop his neck. It waggled its fingers.

  I said, “You see?”

  Parminter threw up. Eyes full of horror and rage, he turned to Coombs. “How can you let them do this to you? To the human race? They’re monsters! You’re the captain of a U.S. Navy vessel, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m not the captain,” Coombs said.

  “What? Then who is?”

  “Fred Cowper.”

  I gave a silent command to the man sitting beside Parminter, Lieutenant Da
n Robles. Robles reached across the table to the covered dish in its center, the piece de resistance. With a reproachful look at me, he lifted its bell.

  There was a severed head underneath-a bald blue head that was no longer remotely human but which had once belonged to Captain Fred Cowper, retired. Parminter knew Cowper well; he had trained under him and had the highest regard for the man. Cowper had been an old-school submariner from the early days of the nuclear Navy. The technocrats hated him, but to Parminter he was the real thing, a no-bullshit maverick-the kind of guy you could bet your life on in a tight spot, whatever the cost to the Navy. Or to himself.

  Well, it had cost Fred everything this time-everything but his head. But that head was alive, an independent entity with multiple little legs, its huge black eyeballs fixed on Parminter.

  “Hiya, Arnie,” it croaked.

  “That’s not Cowper!” Parminter objected. “You’re not Fred Cowper, you fucking ghoul!”

  “I yam what I yam,” said Cowper’s head.

  “You think you’re going to get away with this? If my men don’t hear from me in the next ten minutes, they will blow you out of the water.”

  I said, “In ten minutes, you’ll understand.”

  “Understand what? What the fuck am I going to understand? That a bunch of twisted monstrosities have taken over a submarine? That they’ve learned to play human?”

  Cowper’s head opened its jagged-toothed mouth and guffawed.

  A bit miffed, I said, “No… that we are the last hope of Mankind.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Life on Earth is going to be wiped out. The only thing that may survive is our kind.”

  “Malarkey!” Cowper shouted.

  Parminter asked me, “How do you know that?”

  “We can see it.”

  “See what?”

  “The future. Every person we save is a thread of our human destiny-an irreplaceable piece of genetic memory going back a billion years. A clue to the ultimate puzzle, which we may one day be called upon to solve. There’s not going to be any more evolution, no future generations-we’re it. The restoration of our species depends upon how many lives we save. Lose one person, and we lose all their stored equity-and that is forever. Eternity is a long time to be cooped up together; we’ll want all the company we can get.”