Xombies: Apocalypso

by Greatshell, Walter

  Especially in those early days, Sandoval received all kinds of conflicting instructions from an assortment of increasingly incoherent provisional leaders—those who would talk to him at all—raving about EMP detonations, satellite warfare, alien invaders over Kansas, and the ever-popular Rapture. He knew one man in particular who was making great hay with the religious angle, a former media Mogul named Chace Dixon, who begged him for help he had no power to send. It had been days now since he last bothered tuning in.

  In the end, the last acting NATO commander—some third-tier lieutenant in the French Navy—decided that humanity’s last, best chance was to set up a nautical sanctuary in Chesapeake Bay. This cockeyed optimist ordered every survivor to report to Norfolk, where he and his staff were supposedly following orders from the president of the United States—the dead president—to guard some kind of secret project called Xanadu.

  It was all nuts. Yet even Sandoval wasn’t immune to these fantasies. He often pictured a simple, nautical existence for the dregs of mankind, coming ashore only when necessary to forage, the way old-time mariners approached uncharted coasts, maybe finding a tropical island somewhere to settle down. Live out your years on fish and coconuts. Swim every day and get a really deep tan. No bills to pay—in fact, forget all about the pain in the ass that was Western Civilization. It was more trouble than it was worth, anyway.

  All very delightful, except that Sandoval knew there were precious few island havens. Islands were the first things to go because there was nowhere to run when your women came after you. Most of the islands he knew of were either embattled fortresses or Xombie-infested charnel houses. That such daydreams had taken the place of serious planning was perhaps the clearest possible indication of THE END OF THE WORLD.

  Harvey Coombs himself had recommended going to Norfolk in search of whatever seaborne military forces still existed. Sandoval didn’t have the heart to tell him that their real mission was in the opposite direction.

  The helicopter landing pad was at the extreme northern tip of the compound, a barren patch of dirt overlooking the upper reaches of Narragansett Bay. As Sandoval pulled up, the fog was so thick he could barely see the black Bell JetRanger. But the pilot saw his headlights and came running to meet the car.

  “Can we fly in this?” Sandoval asked.

  “Oh yeah, no prob. With GPS, it’s no sweat, and we’ll be flying above the muck anyway—it’s just ground fog. Hang tight for a second while I finish my preflight.”

  “You’re the boss.” Sandoval locked himself in the car and plugged in some music. He already owed his life to Stan Velocek several times over, and was accustomed to doing whatever the retired aviator told him to do. As both his personal pilot and bodyguard, Stan went everywhere with him, and the first thing Jim had done when he arrived at the plant was to make sure the man would be well taken care of.

  Good thing, too. If it wasn’t for Stan, he would never have survived the expedition to Brown University. None of the other two hundred men who went out there ever made it back to the plant. Jim could still picture that line of company vans and trucks leaving the gate like a military convoy, full of heroic working stiffs—solemn-faced shipfitters and tank rats who had been stirring up revolution and were placated with an offer to seek out lost loved ones outside the gates: all the mothers, sisters, and daughters who hadn’t even been infected when they abandoned them and took shelter in the submarine compound.

  They didn’t find anyone … but at least Jim found what he was looking for: Miska’s Tonic.

  Well, maybe not the Tonic, the fabled magic bullet—Uri Miska had either been lying about that or destroyed all traces of his work. But Sandoval did get a preliminary version of CORE: Miska’s Cognition-Retention Enzyme.

  Though CORE was neither a cure nor a true vaccine, it was a reasonable stopgap, a suitable substitute that Sandoval could sell to his Mogul partners. Snake oil. It was certainly the closest he ever intended to let those bastards come to being gods. There wasn’t much, just a residue on a test sample, but with this they could theoretically make more … as much more as they needed.

  His ex-wife, Alice Langhorne, PhD, had told him where to find it. Alice could be a pain in the ass, but she usually came through when it counted. She had hidden the sample in her office high atop the monolithic Brown Science Laboratory, and when they got there, it was just where she said, in the back of the fridge. A copy of Miska’s hard drive was there, too—good girl!

  While he was at it, Sandoval would have liked to take another slight detour and visit his father at the Xibalba annex—Miska’s underground hideaway—but it was just too dangerous. He knew where it was, but he had never been inside, and this was not the time to figure it out. Good old Piers Alaric was certainly not going anywhere.

  As it was, the lab building almost killed him. It was fortunate that Alice’s directions were so good—there was not a second to spare. One would think the Xombies had been expecting them.

  The infernal creatures stayed out of sight until everyone was inside the tower, just hid there until the very last man filed up that dark stairwell, passing floor after empty floor. Then, pow!—they sprang the trap. It was a damned massacre. Grabbing the precious serum sample, Sandoval ran to the roof like a cornered rat … and there was Stan Velocek with the helicopter, hand outstretched like some angel from heaven.

  Jim watched now as the man darted around the helicopter, a picture of cool competence, scanning every direction for signs of danger, combat shotgun at the ready. Removing the anchor lines, he did a quick visual inspection of the engine and tail rotor before starting it up.

  Sandoval was glad he wouldn’t have to ride with Coombs and the other Navy men in that broken-down hulk of a submarine. What a nightmare that would have been. Considering the working conditions at the plant, it would be a miracle if that thing ever made it out of Narragansett Bay.

  From the very beginning, he had intended to take the chopper to the desolate island airstrip where his private 757 was waiting, but he wasn’t about to leave anything up to chance. It was vitally important to have a backup escape plan, just in case Velocek realized there was nothing stopping him from taking the whirlybird for himself. But the pilot didn’t disappoint; Jim should have known he was as good as gold.

  Thumbs-up—the helicopter was ready. As Sandoval stepped out of the car, something flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision: a pale shape rushing through the fog. It was so silent and quick that at first he thought it was something in his eye, a bit of fuzz or his mind playing tricks, and even when he looked at it full on, he could scarcely believe it was happening—because that’s how these things got you. Then it jumped on the copter.

  It was a grotesque salamander of a woman, naked, muddy, and mottled blue-black from the sea. As Sandoval watched, the slippery creature clawed at the copter’s bubble canopy, trying to get at the man inside. Velocek tried shooting at it through the small side port and almost lost his gun; he just couldn’t get a good angle. In a second, it was going to rip the door right off the cockpit.

  Waving at Sandoval to stay put, the pilot strapped himself in and throttled up for liftoff—obviously he was going to try to shake the thing loose. Knowing what a daredevil Stan was, Sandoval had no doubt the man could do it … it just made him a little uncomfortable to be left sitting here in the dark watching his ride take off without him. Knowing more of those things could appear any second. He clutched his pistol with both hands and half cocked the hammer. Hurry up, Stan …

  The helicopter rose into the air, wobbling as it strained against the unequal weight. It was a light, wasplike craft, a four-seater converted to two for the sake of a reserve fuel tank, fast and highly maneuverable, whose expert pilot knew how to handle unusual loads.

  With the creature beating on his window, Velocek gunned forward and broke hard to the right. He was using centrifugal force to dislodge the thing, and it nearly worked, but instead of being shaken loose, the Maenad merely lost its footing, both legs s
winging up into the rotor blades. With a sound like a weed whacker hitting a clump, its feet went spinning free into the sky.

  Still holding on, the thing shoved the ragged ends of its shins into the warped edge of the cockpit door, using the exposed bones as wedges to pry open the flimsy latch. It burrowed in like a parasite, a giant tick, its every heinous fiber digging at that weak spot. The Perspex window cracked, then shattered as the Xombie lunged through.

  Straight into both barrels of Velocek’s shotgun.

  The blast sheared off most of the Xombie’s head, slinging bone and brain matter far out over the bay. Cropped to its nostrils, the creature toppled backward, scrambling for a handhold as it spilled the last of its brains out the open goblet of its skull … then recovered as if from a bad step. Spurting black goo out the exposed pits of its sinuses, it came at the pilot with renewed vigor.

  Velocek fired again, into its chest. At the same time, he pulled hard out of his dive and yawed right, creating intense g-forces that caused both the creature and the canopy door to be ripped loose, vanishing into thin air like a magic trick.

  Grinning with relief—Gotcha!—Stan Velocek leveled his aircraft and barely had time to blink as a huge white cylinder loomed out of the fog. Then he and the helicopter ceased to exist.

  Jim Sandoval had lost sight of the chopper, but he tried to stay calm, knowing the pilot would put down and collect him at the first opportunity. Stan was reliable if anyone was. Then, from somewhere back in the factory complex, came an eruption of yellow light, followed by a sickening thud that jarred the car. It was an exploding chemical silo.

  What the hell’s that? Sandoval thought. And then: Oh shit.

  Time for plan B.

  Racing back to the wharf at top speed, cursing and pounding the steering wheel as he drove, Sandoval came upon something blocking the road and barely had time to hit his brakes.

  What the—?

  A mass of ghostly people materialized out of the thick gloom; he nearly plowed right into them. Xombies! No, not Xombies—kids! Hundreds of teenage boys crossing the compound on foot, with adults from the factory herding them like a flock of sheep.

  Trundling amid the crowd like a parade float was a large construction vehicle, the Sallie, a specialized flat-top crawler used to move hundred-ton sections of the submarine. Now its dance-hall-sized freight bed was loaded with teenagers dangling their legs off, like a truck hauling migrant workers to the fields. The rolling behemoth was heading slowly but implacably toward the Fitting Bay and, just beyond, the gates to the wharf.

  That wasn’t good … not good at all.

  Working up the nerve to toot his horn, Sandoval watched in agonized frustration as the mob closed ranks on him. A sneering overweight boy pounded the car’s hood while the rest scowled at him with the dull effrontery of a bunch of hooligans, shielding their faces from the Cadillac’s headlights.

  They were after the boat. The rebellious idiots were storming the submarine—his submarine. It was unbelievable … or maybe not so unbelievable. This was exactly the kind of thing he had been hoping to avoid all these weeks, and now here he was, caught up in a revolt, prevented from getting to the boat himself.

  They were armed, too, not with guns but with the even more alarming weapons of angry villagers: hammers, clubs, makeshift blades, and bludgeons of all sorts. Sandoval had a gun, but it would be worse than useless against a mob like this. If he wasn’t careful, this could turn into a bloodbath—his blood.

  These were the folks he had dropped the bomb on only yesterday, serving up the bad news with barbecued chicken and a side of coleslaw. Apparently, they weren’t taking it well. According to plan, they should’ve all been under lock-down until force withdrawal was complete. Until the boat was gone.

  So much for the plan.

  Sandoval saw the shop foreman Larry Holmes coming over at a fast trot, dangerously clutching a big hammer. Jim didn’t want to find out what these people would do if they got their hands on him. Gun or no gun, he put the car in reverse and backed away as fast as he could until the fog shielded him once more, then stopped and turned off his headlights. Sitting in the dark, he could still make out the shadowy crowd limned by the orange caution lights of the Sallie.

  Shit. There was just no way past them.

  Directly ahead, so close and yet so unattainable, were the big cranes of the yard, which had recently been used to pull all the ballistic missile tubes out of the boat and line them up in neat rows on the ground. And before that, the missiles themselves, yanked like so many bad teeth by the watchful representatives of the Strategic Air Command. That had been a new experience for Sandoval—he had always secretly regretted not joining the Air Force, thinking his vertigo had condemned him to an alliance with the less sophisticated, less lordly of the two services. And those pompous SAC bastards had proved him right, hoisting their precious missiles like somber priests removing idols from a defiled temple. God, he had envied them. The civilian sector could never hold a candle to that kind of self-importance: the fate of the world in your hands.

  As the crowd started to thin, Jim cautiously nudged his car forward. All the people passing him now were adults, his formerly dutiful employees, everybody hustling the slowpokes along. The fearful way they were glancing backward toward the main gate made Jim nervous about sitting still for too long.

  Someone rapped hard on the driver’s side window, causing Sandoval to jump. He turned to find himself staring at Gus DeLuca from the machine shop. The man’s jowly mug was sweaty and flushed, but not hostile. DeLuca appeared taken aback to find himself face-to-face with the company CEO.

  Smiling apologetically, DeLuca shouted a muffled, “Uh, sir? Mr. Sandoval, sir?”

  Damn. Jim rolled down his window a crack, saying with false cordiality, “Well, howdy there, Gus. What’s this all about? You know, these people are heading into a restricted—”

  He was interrupted by a length of steel pipe smashing his passenger window. Peppered with glass, Sandoval cringed, then felt himself yanked bodily out of the car.

  “Sorry, Jim, we need the ride,” said Gus as he wrestled him to the ground. “I’ll explain later.”

  Lying there on the damp pavement, Sandoval looked around at his attackers: DeLuca, Holmes, Big Ed Albemarle. “Take me with you,” he said. “Let me talk to Coombs—you’ll never get through without me. I can help you.”

  Ignoring him, DeLuca shouted, “Holmes, you’re up! Take the car and deliver our terms. Honk if they’re amenable to discussion.”

  More urgently, Sandoval said, “I’m telling you, let me talk to them. You can’t negotiate. They have orders to shoot to kill.”

  Gus looked at the others as if to ask, What do you think?

  “Take him along,” someone said—Sandoval realized it was Fred Cowper. So Cowper had made it after all! Hell, this was all probably his idea. The old man had aged a lot since his retirement party, but he was clearly as cantankerous as ever.

  Cowper said, “Gus, you and Ed ride shotgun.”

  They shoved Sandoval into the passenger seat and piled in behind him. “Say the wrong thing, and none of us gets out alive,” Albemarle said.

  As the car skirted the crowd and caught up to the rolling platform, Sandoval’s attention was suddenly drawn to a blurry figure running alongside. At first he assumed it was someone else from the crowd trying to catch their attention, but then he heard shouting and noticed that the adults were banding together and throwing the smaller kids up onto the crawler’s deck. Everyone was pointing at the Cadillac with terrified expressions on their faces.

  A hand grabbed hold of Sandoval’s window frame, making him jump. He whipped around to see a vision so awful that his mind couldn’t absorb it. The sight hit him like a physical blow, a rabbit punch that knocked all the air out of him.

  The thing was an obscene caricature of a beautiful young woman, her perfect teeth gleaming Pepsodent white in a tautly grinning purple face, with a gaping crater in her skull through which the r
emaining brain matter was visible, undulating like a wrinkled scrotum. The living matter seemed to be reaching out of her head for him.

  Before Sandoval had time to react to the shock, the woman seized the car with both hands and vaulted up like a circus rider mounting a galloping horse. He drew breath to shout, Look out! But before he could get the words out, two long legs slithered in through the broken window, and her whole naked body landed on his lap. He could see right through her heart.

  Pandemonium broke out in the car.

  Gus DeLuca spun the wheel, and suddenly there was a utility pole in the headlights. They were only moving at about 15 mph, but the car slammed hard, deploying its air bags, and everyone dove, screaming, out the doors. Sandoval tumbled to the ground with the woman wrapped around him, her nimble and ridiculously strong arms crushing his windpipe while her neck strained to force that crazed sucker-fish mouth over his. Her exposed brain licked his forehead like a sticky tongue.

  Help me! he tried to shout, head twisting wildly to avoid her questing mouth. Somebody help! He couldn’t reach the gun; his arms were clamped tight by her cold, naked thighs. Sandoval could feel himself blacking out.

  Then by some miracle he was free, doubled over on his side and retching in pain. It was Gus DeLuca and Big Ed Albemarle: They had brained the thing with the heavy hammers they used in the factory—they were still braining it. It had no brains left to brain.

  “X marks the spot,” DeLuca crowed.

  “Die … die … die … ” muttered Albemarle, his denim coveralls speckling with inky blood as they pounded the writhing thing into the ground.

  Stepping back to rest his arm, Gus DeLuca said, “Ed, we gotta go.” The parade had moved on, and they were alone in the fog. The Cadillac was steaming from its crumpled hood, totaled.