Apocalypso x-3

by Walter Greatshell

  Coombs agreed. “Sure. But who? And why?”

  “Could just be some kind of automated defense system,” Dan Robles suggested. “A leftover from the plague.”

  “No way. That thing was clean, it looked new, which means it musta been maintained by somebody. It’s a complicated piece of machinery-it can’t just sit outside in the rain for months. I’m telling you, its operators are around here somewhere.”

  Robles said, “So they just open fire? Some of us look human, yet they fired on all of us indiscriminately, Blues and Clears alike.”

  Cowper replied, “Some of us are Blue, that’s enough. To some poor, scared schmuck, that makes us all suspect. No offense to you Clears, but you don’t look all that human.”

  “I’m not offended,” Coombs said, “but I doubt a human could tell the difference.”

  “You sound offended.”

  “I’m not. So what’s our next move?”

  “Somebody’s monitoring this place. Which means we either gotta get out of here… or we gotta go get ’em.”

  “I’m not sure we should go off on a wild-goose chase, Fred. That thing could have been operated from anywhere. They could be a thousand miles away for all we know.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s your prerogative. Mine is to get us out of here in one piece. As it is, some of these guys will be crapping metal for a week.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t trace the radio data link.”

  “It’s still worth trying. We should return to the boat and scan the airwaves.”

  “Tran already did that when we came in. There was nothing but a lot of interference.”

  “It wasn’t interference driving that robot.”

  Robles froze. “The boat.”

  “What?”

  “I think I just realized where they might-”

  He was interrupted by an explosion. The sound was a deep, ringing gong that registered in our back teeth, and down at the waterfront, a white tower of spray rose far into the air. A pier warped off its concrete pilings and collapsed into the harbor. Almost immediately, there was a second explosion, but very little was visible now through the curtain of mist and falling debris. It took me a moment to realize that our boat was gone-all that was left was a spreading ring of foam.

  “Unbelievable,” said Dan Robles.

  “What?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “They sank our boat.”

  “Who?”

  He pointed. “Them.”

  Something was moving beneath the opposite dock slip; the water churned, boiled up, then parted as another submarine broke the surface.

  It was the sub we had seen when we first arrived-the ship we thought was wrecked, with only a lonely radar mast to mark its watery grave. It was an easy assumption to make since we hadn’t sensed any life aboard. But no-it was very much alive, glowing like a lantern with multiple human candles. The crew had been hiding somehow, playing dead.

  At first sight, I thought it was a second Ohio-class boat, but then I realized this vessel was not quite the same as ours. Its sail planes were mounted higher, and the whole thing was shorter and more slender. I had learned a bit about subs these past few months, but this type was new to me.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “French boat,” Fred’s head said. “Triomphante-class. Playin’ possum, the bastards. I shoulda recognized that Dassault mast, but I was too busy playin’ pattycake. S’what I get.”

  Taking all the time in the world, the foreign sub eased out past the wreckage of ours, heading for the deepwater channel. Men appeared atop the fairwater to pilot the thing out. One of them scanned the shore with binoculars, and when he spotted our party, he gibbered with excitement, motioning the others to look. The one with the greatest air of authority raised his own spyglass. Staring down those lenses, I could almost read the man’s mind: C’est impossible!

  Reaching the channel, the French boat lazily submerged and was soon out of sight.

  Over the next few hours, most of our crew trickled ashore. Some chose to remain on board to stabilize the damage, or perhaps because they were trapped and didn’t really care. The Blackpudlians probably stayed because they preferred it that way. Since they could not drown, they simply went down with the ship and waited for it to settle before finding a dry compartment in which to practice four-part harmonies.

  Phil Tran was one of the first to appear, looking like a drowned rat as he slogged up the riverbank. Giving me a dripping salute, he said, “Lieutenant Tran reporting for duty, Lulu.”

  “At ease, Phil,” I said. “What happened down there?”

  “I picked up a radio transmission coming from the French boat. We went to battle stations, but they were already lined up for a shot. It was point-blank: We took two torpedoes below the waterline. The second one breached the pressure hull and flooded the missile compartment. She’s totally swamped.”

  “What now?”

  “Well, the enemy seems to have gone, so we have two choices. We can either ditch the boat or try to salvage it. It’s going to be a big job patching those holes and pumping her out, but everything we need is right here. And there’s another thing… ”

  “What?”

  “We actually traced two radio transmissions. One was coming from the French sub-that was the control signal for the robot. The other was the same ULF signature we detected off the coast. Xanadu.”

  “Were you able to pinpoint it?”

  “Yes. It’s coming from somewhere north of here, say two hundred miles away. Right in the vicinity of Washington, DC.”

  The crew went to work. Needing neither rest nor diving equipment, they scavenged welding equipment from the Navy yard and quickly sealed the largest holes in the hull. The job was made easier thanks to the hull plates that had been conveniently cut from the dry-docked ship.

  Once the flooded compartment was airtight, they rigged up every pump they could find (including a fireboat’s water cannon) to drain it. In less than a week, the enormous chamber was sucked dry. But it was a mess. Floating the sub was one thing; making it work was another. Once again, they were able to find much of what they needed in the spare boomer. What they couldn’t find, they made, using the steel-milling equipment on base. For some of the men, former shipyard workers, it was almost like old times. All they still needed were some fuel rods to replace the ones that had been damaged, but Mr. Fisk knew of a power reactor up the Chesapeake that was likely to be intact.

  “All right,” I said. “We need transportation. Everybody spread out and find us a ride. Meet back here in fifteen minutes.”

  Without a word, we scattered, reconnoitering the base. When we regrouped, it was Julian Noteiro who delivered the report. He had found three vehicles, he said, a convoy capable of carrying the entire party. One was an eighteen-wheel moving van with the word MAYFLOWER on its side; the other two were charter buses. All three needed work to get them running, but our engineers were equal to the task, and in short order we were on board and en route to Washington, DC.

  PART IV

  Xanadu

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BIG ENTRANCE

  “Hurry up, come on!” Fran had yelled, as Todd and Ray clambered in the rear of the ambulance.

  Ray shouted, “We’re in, go!”

  The truck leaped into gear, making a hard left turn and tossing them around. Todd said, “Well, that was convenient.”

  “Sit back and leave the driving to us!” Sandoval tossed back a salute.

  “How do we get out of here?” Fran asked, quailing as they approached a traffic barrier at high speed-a phalanx of plastic water drums.

  Sandoval answered by stomping the accelerator to the floor. As the passengers held tight, the ambulance rammed straight into the drums, bouncing them across the deserted intersection.

  Squawking like a radio announcer, Sandoval said, “Empty water drums-brought to you by your good friends at Slave Labor, Inc. If it’s a shitty job, it’s gotta
be Slave Labor!”

  Keeping up the momentum, he charged over sidewalks and across parking lots, using a GPS device to avoid blocked streets as he raced out of the city. Clearly, the whole route had been painstakingly mapped out ahead of time. James Sandoval didn’t leave room for errors.

  “What about your people back there?” Ray asked.

  Sandoval said, “My crew have been slipping away for the past week, and the few that are left are taking full advantage of this diversion. Don’t worry about them; they know how to take care of themselves. We’ll all meet later at the rendezvous point.”

  “What about the Apostle?” Deena asked.

  “He’s just been cannonized.”

  Straining up the steep grade of College Hill, Sandoval illegally took the bus tunnel through to the East Side, then hurtled down back streets of formerly expensive residential neighborhoods, swerving around abandoned cars as he crossed a bridge over the Seekonk River. On the other side, he turned left through an oil storage depot and, a moment later, pulled to a stop in a deserted boatyard.

  In an ordinary summer, this lot served a small fleet of pleasure craft; now there was only one. Moored at the end of the dock was a striking three-masted yacht. The sight of it almost made Sandoval’s four passengers weep with relief.

  Picking up the CB microphone, he said, “I’m here, Chandra.” There was no reply. “Chandra?”

  “What’s wrong?” Ray asked.

  “Probably nothing. Stay here.”

  Sandoval got out of the vehicle, taking a shotgun and leaving the engine on. They watched as he walked to the dock ramp, scanning every corner. The whole area appeared to be deserted. Good.

  The yacht looked untouched. It was a hell of a thing: a custom-built sixty-foot sloop, lacquered gloss black, with teak decking and ribbed orange sails like dragon’s wings. It resembled a futuristic Chinese junk. The elegantly scrolled name on the stern was La Fantasma. Ray knew this boat inside and out, having spent the previous summer working on board, transporting it from Sandoval’s estate in Venezuela across the Caribbean, then all the way up the East Coast along the Intracoastal Waterway.

  Sandoval studied the yacht for another few seconds, then started down the ramp to the dock. When he reached the middle, cut off from all help, the trap was sprung.

  There was a diesel roar, and a huge riot vehicle crashed through the doors of the boathouse and blocked the road. At the same time, dozens of Adamites leaped out of hiding places in the overgrown brush, brandishing automatic weapons and surrounding the ambulance. But they kept their distance, obviously well aware of the girls’ explosive vests.

  The Apostle Chace appeared.

  He rose like a phantom from inside the yacht. It was a deliberately big entrance; he knew he was resplendently silly in his Holy Roman Emperor regalia, replete with towering hat and gold scepter, flanked by hooded bodyguards. But the little folk so adored these exorbitant displays, and Chace was nothing if not a people-pleaser. Savoring the moment, he grandly descended a plank to the dock.

  To Sandoval, he said gravely, “Et tu, Jimbo? I knew you had to be the ringleader.”

  “And you the ringmaster.”

  Addressing the witnesses, Chace said, “Well, as you all can see, it looks like we’ve had a serpent in our midst, a liar and an imposter! Our friend and ally the Prophet is not what he pretended to be-not a friend, not an ally, and not a prophet. In fact, he isn’t a holy man at all, but an unholy one! And here he is! Brothers, I’d like you to meet the little man who caused this big fraud: James Sandoval!”

  The soldiers erupted in furious boos and catcalls.

  “Who is he, you may wonder, and how did he pull the wool over our eyes for so long? I was fooled, too, I admit it! Well, look at him! So aristocratic, so smooth. But we shouldn’t be surprised. Satan is a master of deception. That’s his MO; he’s a scam artist who will masquerade as our fondest desire, tempt us with false idols and false hopes, then stab us in the back. But in the end, liars will always be found out. Even the King of Lies will be exposed. Suffer not these false prophets, these she-males and Elvis impersonators. Let us drive them into the light of Heavenly justice, just as Christ drove the demon pigs off a cliff!”

  Opening a parchment scroll, Dixon put on a pair of reading glasses and declaimed, “James Sandoval, you are all hereby charged with blasphemy, heresy, and conspiring against all the Angels, Prophets, and Living Saints, in the person of Their chosen representative on Earth!”

  Sandoval laughed. “You mean you?”

  “I am now Prophet and Apostle rolled into one. How plead ye to these charges?”

  “Ye? Come on, ye can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, the charges are extremely serious.”

  “Well, I don’t acknowledge your authority, Torquemada. Go stick that in your hat.”

  Delightedly, Chace cried, “Guilty! Did you hear that? Did you all hear that? The accused has freely confessed that he denies the True Prophet! By rejecting the Apostle of Adam, he rejects Adam’s Word!”

  “Adam doesn’t give a damn about you,” Sandoval said, “and neither do I.”

  “Guilty! To deny the authority of Lord Adam’s appointed vassal is to deny Adam Himself, and to deny Adam is to deny Our Heavenly Father.”

  “You know what? I’m not really religious, but I seriously doubt that God needs any help from a bug like you.”

  “Guilty! The accused admits to opposing Our Lord and Savior. ‘Not really religious,’ he says, which is the same thing as saying he is irreligious, antireligious! There is no middle ground-the Lord accepts no compromise! Therefore, it becomes our solemn duty to save this man from eternal suffering. To scourge his physical body that he may repent and be saved.”

  The guards seized Sandoval and forced him to his knees. Striking a dramatic pose, Chace cried, “O Heaven bestow thy Flaming Rod, to smite the Foe of Man… and God!”

  Chace raised his scepter. It was made from an electric cattle prod: a forked steel bar wrapped in kerosene-soaked rags, with a copper core and an insulated handle. When he flicked the switch, a blue-white spark bounced between the poles, igniting the rod in a wreath of yellow flame. At night the effect was quite spectacular. He swooshed it back and forth a few times for good measure.

  “Now, Heathen,” he said ominously. “Tremble before the Mighty Scourge of Heaven!”

  Sandoval’s defiant face twisted away from the burning staff.

  That’s when the ambulance came to life, popping into gear and lurching forward. Several disciples barely had time to leap aside as the vehicle charged. Gathering force, it smashed through the dockside railing and shot out over the water, landing hard. The hood buckled, and the windshield caved in. In seconds it sank out of sight. No one emerged.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Chace asked.

  “I think you just lost all your Immunes, buddy.”

  Dixon’s eyes widened with comprehension, then hardened. “That’s okay. That’s okay. All it means is we have to speed up our train schedule. We have enough doses left for a couple of weeks, and I’m pretty sure there’ll be no shortage of Immunes once we get to Xanadu. I’m not worried.”

  “You should be. Those people will defend themselves, and you’re not immune against them.”

  “They won’t be expecting us. We’re the Peace Train! We’ll come tooting in there like Thomas the Tank Engine, and they’ll never know what hit them. The only ones left when it’s over will be the Immunes.”

  “Then I guess you have nothing to worry about.”

  “You got that right, Jim. But you do.” He raised the sizzling torch. “You definitely do.”

  “I guess I’m caught in a trap,” Sandoval said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I can’t walk out.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “You want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  Out of nowhere, there was a blast of amplified music, and a booming voice sang, “Because I love you too much
, babyyyy.”

  Chace jumped in surprise, craning his neck to find the source. “What the hell?”

  It was coming from the top of a giant oil tank. There were people up there, a whole rock band. The soldiers hurriedly fell back to see better.

  “What is that?” Chace demanded.

  Awestruck, one of his men said, “It’s the King.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  FREE CONCERT

  The singer’s face was partially obscured behind large sunglasses and a glossy black forelock, but the weirdness of that familiar husky voice jerked the heartstrings of all below, as though they were hearing a voice from a tomb. He wore a white suit with bell-bottom pants and a silver-ornamented jacket with an upturned collar. He was frozen in a running stance, only his leg jerking to the drumbeat, and on either side of him were rows of disco-dressed Xombies, all matching his moves with perfect precision.

  “No it isn’t,” Chace said with dawning wonder, climbing the dock ramp. “It’s Miska.”

  A series of small pyrotechnic explosions went off, raining showers of cool sparks down on the troops, then the boatyard was filled with the sound of a Hammond organ and electric guitars… and suddenly Elvis was moving! He was singing and dancing! The guards started cheering uncontrollably as the long-deceased King rocked above them, his pelvis thrusting and his sexy undead dancers thrusting in sync. The song resumed in an explosion of energy. It was deafening, booming down from a dozen speakers: a command performance of the Elvis classic “Suspicious Minds.” And it was beautiful.

  Resistance collapsed before this surprise live appearance by one of the greatest entertainers of all time performing one of his greatest hits. It was insane. It was impossible. Yet it was good. Hardened warriors who hadn’t felt such joy in years gave in to the pure bliss of the moment, grinning uncontrollably as they rocked to the beat and sang along with the choruses. When the song ended, wild applause broke out, men whistling and howling for an encore. The ovation was deafening, causing Dixon to shake his head in wonder.