“What about him?” He pointed to Sandoval.
An eruption of gunfire and screams rattled the gloom, then a rockslide of trampling feet that was the sound of mass panic. An amplified voice said, “HALT. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA.”
“Fuck him and the car he rode in on,” said DeLuca. “We gotta get down there.”
They left him.
In the distance, Sandoval could hear a chorus of voices begging to be let on the boat. He knew there wasn’t much chance of them ever getting past the Marines posted there. It was the end of the line for all of them, himself included.
He could picture the scene: the dockyard full of empty missile tubes, the dead hulk of the Sallie blocking the road, its driver shot dead in the front cab and terrified boys pouring off the crawler’s deck like panicked wildebeests entering a crocodile-infested river.
They were pinned down on the broad tarmac between the submarine’s gangway—the “brow”—and the terraced lawn that was the site of yesterday’s dockside picnic. Bob Martino’s blood would still be there in the grass for anyone who cared to look. The boat would still be there, too, though not for long, its speckled mast array looming in the dark as if suspended in midair. Beneath that, the railed gantry would fade into black nothingness, a bridge to nowhere.
How did those poor saps think they were going to escape when the man who owned the submarine factory could not? Did they imagine they could appeal to pity? Lay claim to human dignity, decency, or justice? At this late hour, when the coin of mercy was a debased slug not even fit to steal a gumball? When the sleep of death itself had become a luxury? How dare they be so stupid—Jim Sandoval damned them for their pride.
Resigned, lying there in the dirt, he could only shake his head as the shooting resumed. It would all be over soon.
Something slippery touched his hand.
He jumped up to see the ruined Maenad coming toward him. She was just a quivering pulp on the ground, roadkill, but she was still alive, still moving. Not fast, but faster by the second. Most incredibly, he still sensed that same wild eagerness as before, emanating from these smashed remains—pure, frenzied lust at the sight of him. As he watched, the mincemeat of her mangled flesh was knitting back together, not quite healing but gathering itself into sturdier form. The sound it made was awful.
There was an explosive crash down at the wharf. Still staring in horror, Sandoval thought, What the hell are they doing now? The shooting abruptly stopped. and the thinly officious voice of Harvey Coombs came over a loudspeaker:
“FRED, THIS IS COMMANDER COOMBS. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, BUT IN MY BOOK IT’S TREASON. YOU ARE INTERFERING WITH CRITICAL NAVAL OPERATIONS.”
Jim listened, snorting incredulously as the amplified voice of Fred Cowper, USN (Ret.), replied, “LET ME AND ALL THESE PEOPLE ON BOARD, THEN PUT US ASHORE SOMEPLACE HALFWAY SECURE!”
Was this a joke? Fred talked as if he was calling the shots. As if he and a ragtag bunch of hardhats and teenage boys were the ones holding the aces.
Which, Sandoval suddenly realized, they just might be.
With dawning wonder, he understood why they had brought the Sallie vehicle on their little crusade: The massive freight hauler wasn’t just to give the kids a lift. In its sheer bulk, it was the only weapon they had capable of sinking a nuclear submarine. What he was hearing down there was the ultimate game of chicken.
Demolition derby, Sandoval thought, not without admiration. Fred, you old bastard!
As he stood there shaking his head, the raveled Maenad rose to its feet and lurched toward him. At the same time, he could see movement in the fog: several odd-looking people running for the wharf. Not people—Xombies. Lots more Xombies, attracted by the light and commotion.
It was going to be a hell of a fight. Feeling reanimated himself, Jim knew he had to get down there, too … but obviously he’d never make it on foot. Dodging the gropes of that mangled Hellion, he sprinted toward the nearest available vehicle, an electric cart by the tool shed.
He wouldn’t miss this for the world.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MOSH PIT
Todd and Ray were sworn in as disciples of the Prophet Jim.
It was a strange process, requiring them first to stuff themselves with rich foods like cheese, cured meats, and canned fruitcake, then to become violently ill for three days. Purged to the point of dehydration and delirium, they were forced to confess their sins and desires at the end of a red-hot poker. After declaring their total fealty to the approved pantheon of gods and prophets, they were stripped to the waist—their revealed torsos covered with cross-shaped welts—and doused in freezing water almost to the point of drowning. Finally, they were allowed to sleep. For years, it seemed.
When they awoke, it was to gentle voices, soft robes, and delicious bread and soup.
Then the praying began. Prayers before meals, after meals, before bed, upon waking, and randomly throughout the day, religious obeisance required before and after engaging in any activity, however trivial, a constant, compulsive drone of gratitude and contrition.
Time blurred. Reality warped.
“Yoo-hoo. Wake up, sleepyhead. I’d like to show you something.”
Ray awoke to find a man’s face staring at him, inches away. It was a bulbous, boyish face, the face of a middle-aged schoolboy with hair sleeked back like a sumo. It took Ray a second to remember where he was: in his new quarters on the fourth floor of the Westin Hotel. Todd’s room was down the hall. The hotel was less luxurious than it had been formerly, having no heat, running water, electricity, working elevators, or room service, but it still looked pretty snazzy. Most of the disciples were bivouacked next door in the Providence Place Mall, camped out on the floor of Macy’s or Old Navy, and taking their meals in the Food Court.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ray asked in alarm.
“Whoa. Hey. Easy there, big fella. It’s only little ol’ me, Chace Dixon.”
The name didn’t immediately register. “What are you doing in my room?”
“Ray, I know it’s been a while, but come on. Don’t you recognize me?”
Oh shit. Ray hurriedly braided the frayed ends of his wits. Chace Dixon. Media Mogul and associate of Jim Sandoval. He owned an apartment in Jim’s building, and Ray had met him a few times in passing. What the hell was he doing here?
Then it hit him. Ray said, “Are you the Apostle Chace?”
“Did you just realize that? I love it! I was just thinking about you, and thought I’d drop by and say hello.”
“Hello … and good-bye.” Ray rolled over to face the wall.
Dixon sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ray, do you believe in miracles?”
“Not really.”
“I love that! Thank you. If only more people around here were so honest! Yet you must admit it’s a strange coincidence that you and I should meet each other again, here on the far side of the Apocalypse. One might even call it fate.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Of course it is! It’s totally nuts. But then that’s pretty much the definition of a miracle.”
“Or mental illness.”
“This from someone who claims to have seen Elvis.”
“Yeah, but I know it wasn’t really Elvis—it was Uri Miska.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loud—some people around here wouldn’t take kindly to it.”
“Why not?”
“I mean these Elvis visitations have inspired a bit of a cult. It’s a time of miracles and wonders; people are primed to believe in anything, including Elvis. They don’t want to think he’s an imposter.”
“But you know he is.”
“Let’s just say it’s part of my job description to promote miracles and wonders.”
“Have you even seen him?”
“Seen him?” Dixon said. “We shot him.”
“You what? Shot him?”
“Yes indeedy. After what happened to us last time we were in this town, my sentries are on a ha
ir trigger; they shoot anything that moves. One of them put a twelve-gauge shotgun load in Elvis’s chest. Blew a hole you could have stuck your fist through, but it had no effect on him. He just kind of shook it off, and said, ‘Don’t do that, man.’ Then he was gone. I ordered the men not to report anything until I could get to the bottom of it. Thanks to you and your friend, I think we have.”
“Miska thinks you’re threatening the survival of the human race by spreading immunity to the Xombies. He says some kind of Armageddon is coming that only Xombies can survive.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think Miska’s probably crazy.”
“Put your shoes on,” Dixon said, getting up off the bed. “I’d like to show you something.”
He led Ray through a dark parking garage that connected the hotel to the Convention Center. The latter was a large, glass-faced building resembling an airport terminal. Unlike the mall or the hotel, there were very few people around.
As they walked, Dixon said, “It’s not as if I was ever that pious before Agent X. I believed in God, but organized religion was a tool of manipulation, a way to control the masses. I thought it was purely psychological, but then I had never had any real evidence to the contrary.”
Leading at a brisk pace, Dixon took Ray down a utility corridor to a heavy double door marked EMERGENCY EXIT—ALARM WILL SOUND.
In a hushed voice, he said, “We call this the Mosh Pit.”
He unbolted the door and pulled it open. On the other side was a dim balcony overlooking a huge convention hall full of people. Not people—Xombies. Thousands of eerily quiet Exes, all staring up at them. Even fifty feet above that sea of blue faces, Ray felt panic squeeze his guts like a big cold hand.
“What are they all doing here?” he asked.
“They’re locked in.”
“Why?”
“Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em. Originally, we intended to burn the whole thing down, but then we realized it wasn’t necessary. They can’t get out. It’s like storing nuclear waste. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“How’d they all get here in the first place?”
“Some are Red Cross workers and National Guard who tried to set up a safe zone during the outbreak. The rest are poor suckers who made the mistake of taking shelter here. I figure there are around twenty or thirty thousand of them altogether. Once the disease got loose among them, it was all over—we locked the doors and barricaded them shut. It’s terrible, I know, but at least they’re not suffering.”
“Not suffering? It looks like Auschwitz down there.”
“If these things suffered, they’d be dead by now. They’ve been in here almost four months without food or water. Do you smell any rot or decay? No. They don’t die; they don’t feel pain. In the early days, we wasted a lot of ammo on them before we realized they don’t stay dead, either whole or in pieces. Good thing, too, because now we have a big supply of Hellions for the Prophet to convert. He does a few every Sunday.”
“Convert how?”
“They are Sealed with the Sacrament, just as you were.”
“If you say so. Listen, this is freaking me out—can we go?”
“In a minute. I want you to see something first.”
“What?”
“Here, put this on.” He handed Ray a safety harness and donned one himself.
To the right of the balcony was a metal ladder up to the roof beams. Dixon checked Ray’s harness, and together they climbed up there, clipping onto a safety line as they followed the steel beams to an electric winch in the middle of the ceiling. Attached to the winch was a large hook intended to hoist heavy stage lights or other equipment. With a thumbs-up, Dixon affixed the hook to Ray’s harness and pushed the boy off the edge.
“Whoa, hey, shit!” Flailing wildly, Ray swung out into space. Then Dixon pressed the DOWN button.
“Stop!” Ray shrieked. “What are you doing?” The Xombies rustled at the sound of his voice, swaying like a field of reeds in the wind.
Dixon ignored his cries. As Ray slowly descended, the blue masses cleared an opening for him, a bare atoll in that sea of yearning faces. Ray screamed for help, sobbing, begging, trying to climb the wire, anything, but there was no escape.
The Xombies stared upward, intent on his progress … though not nearly as frenzied as he would have expected. In fact, they looked a little bored, as though they had been through this routine many times and didn’t have the energy. Perhaps it was too easy for them, no challenge—why should they have to work for it? Scrunching his body into a fetus-shaped kernel of anticipation, Ray dropped right into their midst.
They made no move to touch him. In fact, they dismissed him entirely, turning all their attention back on Chace Dixon.
Oh my God.
Dixon called down, “Pretty neat, huh?”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Hold that thought.” He hit a wall switch, and the winch raised Ray to the catwalk. In a moment, both men were out of their harnesses and back on the balcony. “Not bad, huh?”
“What does this mean? How did you do that?”
“Not so crazy now, am I?”
“How are you controlling them?”
“I’m not controlling them—God is.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean this is all real, Ray. Blind faith no longer required. I wanted to demonstrate to you that the Lord really is on our side if we choose to serve Him. There really are angels and demons waging a war between Heaven and Hell, and it’s up to us to choose sides. You’re not dealing with deluded religious nuts. This is not like the Grammy Awards or the Super Bowl, where the winner thanks God and everybody rolls his eyes because it’s such bull. This is for real, an actual miracle. As long as you’re with us, you are Hellion-proof.”
Ray was still in shock; he could barely stand. Voice quaking, he asked, “H-how?”
“The Prophet has interceded on your behalf. You’ve been through the purification ceremony, been anointed with the blood of the lamb; now your sins are forgiven.”
“But that’s all just symbolism. How can that make a difference?”
“There are no symbols anymore, no empty ceremonies. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Ray! Everything is exactly what it seems.”
He took Ray back outside and chained the doors.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CONVOCATION
The next day an assembly was announced, and the dazed new recruits joined a parade of soldiers marching up to the State House lawn. They were handed paper scrolls and symbolic scourging rods. Men congratulated Todd and Ray and welcomed them into the family—a euphoric experience after their ordeal.
Entering the capitol grounds, they noticed that all the trees had been cut down for firewood. An artificial grove of X-shaped steel frames had been erected, and dozens of laborers were dismantling old military barricades, building new wooden bleachers, and digging pit latrines around the perimeter. The workers were filthy, exhausted, and demoralized from being jeered at all day and pelted with trash.
“Oh shit,” Todd said. “What is this, a giant hazing? I am definitely not feeling this.”
“More new arrivals?” asked the supervising Adamite, a former Army Ranger named Sheldon Barnstable.
His fellow cleric, a former bank manager named Lester Mead, said, “Yeah—they’re the guys who came in riding bikes.”
“Bikes! Are you for real?”
“I saw it myself.”
“No shit.” To Todd and Ray, he asked, “Where did you guys come from?”
“Fox Point.”
“What were you doing there?”
Todd said, “Talking to Elvis.”
“You should be down on your knees thanking Adam that we found you before the Hellions did.”
“Oh, we are,” said Ray.
Lester Mead said, “I just want to go on the record as saying I think it’s kind of uncool that you guys have special privileges over those
of us who have been in the Adams since before the Tribs.”
“We do?”
“Oh yeah. I have your orders right here. No ditches for you boys; you’ve both been bumped up to custodial detail at the hotel. That requires clearance from the top. Looks like you’re even quartered there—sweet gig! Pays to have friends in high places, I guess.”
“That’s great,” Todd said. “Can we go?”
“You’re to report as soon as convocation is dismissed.” The man lowered his voice. “You know, this is not going to make you very popular around here. Little friendly advice? If I were you, I’d request billeting with the other acolytes. The Prophet will be better off having more experienced guys change His sheets, and you’ll have a chance to learn the ropes. It would be a gesture of solidarity.”
“I don’t think so,” Todd said brightly. “But thanks!”
“Your funeral,” said Barnstable.
The men gathered on the hillside under the capitol. At the bottom of the field was a fenced compound containing rows of RVs, a combination trailer park and concentration camp. Laundry lines hung between the trailers, and women young and old could be seen washing clothes in tubs. A few of them were waving or calling to men they knew, their brothers, husbands, fathers, or sons. The men furtively waved or pretended not to hear them—others whistled or mocked.
Todd asked, “I don’t get it. If women are no threat, why are they still being quarantined?”
“They’re an endangered species,” Captain Barnstable explained. “They have to be protected.”
“You mean from Xombies?”
Barnstable looked at him as if he was stupid. “From us. We worked too hard to find these; we can’t take any chances of losing them. Especially the Evians.”
“Evians?”
“Daughters of Eve. Brides of the Prophet.”
Ray started to react, but Todd stepped on his foot.
“What’s with the trailers?” Todd asked. “Aren’t there enough empty buildings to house everybody?”
“Trailers are easier to police and maintain. And transport, of course.”
Xombies: Apocalypso Page 11
