Xombies: Apocalypso

by Greatshell, Walter

  Emerging between the towering legs of the superstructure, I listened for signs of life, but the thing felt empty. Whoever had been there was gone now.

  “Hey!” I shouted. My voice echoed hollowly above the slosh of the waves. There was no answer.

  I bled air from my vest and sank back to the bottom. Brushing floating hair out of my face, I checked my GPS display, mentally feeding my coordinates to Cowper’s head in the Nav Center, where he typed it out for the crew using his long black tongue.

  We came across a sunken ship, a guided-missile frigate. Then a destroyer. A helicopter assault ship. Dozens of smaller vessels. This had been a battleground. Now it was a graveyard.

  Signaling the rest of my party to take it slow, I studied the white seabed around us. The bottom appeared to be covered with dead coral, clinking underfoot like bleached bones, and it took me a second to realize it was not coral at all but actual bones—human remains. The whole area was a vast killing field. The sheer quantity of bones was remarkable, far more than was accounted for by the sunken wrecks. How did they get there?

  Before I could work this out, there was a strange commotion from up front, a lot of yelling inside my head. Pull back, pull back! At the same time, a swarm of dim objects, visible only as pale wisps against the bioluminous haze, suddenly swept across the bottom and started fastening onto me with sharp pincers.

  They were crabs—millions of crabs. Crabs of all kinds: blue crabs, rock crabs, primitive-looking horseshoe crabs. All of them unusually large and aggressive. Girded with sharp spines and powerful claws, they were hard to get off, hard to kill, and just plain hard. Most disturbing of all, they obviously had a taste for Xombies.

  Déjà vu, I thought, batting at them. Quickly becoming overwhelmed, I ordered, Retreat!

  I wasn’t the only one; all the Dreadnauts were in flight, facing against the tide and dragging bunches of crustaceans from their extremities like bizarre fruit. The frenzied crabs followed, swimming and scuttling over the bottom in a rolling wave.

  As the point man, farthest from the ship, Alton Webb had the worst of it, doing what he could to stall the attackers by using his own body as bait, hacking crabs off himself with karate moves. But this was not very effective, and he was quickly enveloped in shrouds of hungry creatures.

  My group and I were also covered but not so burdened that we couldn’t climb the lines to the boat, shedding our wet suits and some of our flesh to rid ourselves of the sharp-clinging foe, or even biting crabs off each other with our teeth.

  Within the ship, Coombs ordered Reverse Slow, causing the great screws to begin resisting the current. It was risky because any sound we made at this range and depth could be noticed by a reasonably alert enemy, but the only other choice was to drift blindly into the defensive lines.

  The crabs followed us up the trailing ropes, linking legs and massing by tons to actually put a drag on the submarine. If they reached it, their sheer numbers could block the intake ducts and destabilize the ballast. But the last men to the lines, Alton Webb and Jack Kraus—both of them buried in vicious crustaceans and eroding like sandcastles—realized the danger and simultaneously decided on the last, best course of action:

  As one, they pulled out their knives and cut the nylon cords, dropping away from the sub and taking the threat with them. Adding their own bones to the heap.

  Once the surviving Dreadnauts were back aboard, crew members armed with bolt cutters and hammers dealt with any persisting crabs. Some of these had actually burrowed into the bodies of their victims, lodging up inside bellies and chest cavities like ironic cancers—the only cancers a Xombie could get—which necessitated the crudest parody of surgery to remove.

  Cutting crabs off me, Alice Langhorne asked, “What just happened out there?”

  “What does it look like? Crabs! We were attacked by crabs.”

  “I was worried about something like this. I just didn’t expect it to apply so indiscriminately.”

  “What?” I asked, yanking a small crab off my left earlobe.

  “When we were doing risk assessments for MoCo, we realized that Maenads were not deterred by water obstacles. They could easily ford rivers, lakes, and oceans, meaning any kind of moat was useless, and even islands offered only temporary protection. Extreme cold was the only guaranteed defense, which is why the Moguls all came to Thule. But the problem solved itself: It turns out that the ASR morphocyte—Agent X—is able to colonize the bodies of certain invertebrates.”

  “Shit.”

  “It does not do this by piggybacking on iron molecules, the way it does in human blood cells. Crabs don’t have hemoglobin. Their environment has to be saturated with microbial ASR—pulverized Maenad tissue—so that they absorb it into their bodies and nervous systems. Once this reaches a critical mass, the morphocytes form a rudimentary nerve center that takes control of the host organism, causing it to suddenly develop an insatiable appetite for richer sources of Agent X—such as ourselves.”

  I erupted. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us before we went out there? We just lost three guys!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m still getting used to this; my mind is so different than it was when I was alive … like a black hole in space. I find it very hard to narrow my focus. To attend.”

  “Well, you have to. We all have to.”

  “I’ll try to be more careful.”

  “Screw being careful,” I said. “It’s time we played hardball.”

  Keeping well clear of the bay entrance, we headed south until we came to the bottom leg of the causeway, which was basically a long pier connected to the Norfolk shore. The water here was too shallow to dive the boat, but we didn’t intend to. Instead, we lined up for an easy shot and fired a spread of four torpedoes at the bridge pylons.

  Four plumes of white spray rose to the sky, and a great span of concrete and steel tumbled into the water. Then we just cruised over it.

  We were inside Chesapeake Bay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  FRENCH TOAST

  I looked up along the coast. Not far upriver was the sight of the first landing by early settlers of Jamestown—the Pocahontas thing. The Disney musical. As a kid I had liked that cartoon, but my mother despised its cheap sentimentality, its glossing-over of ugly historic events. Hollywood is bullshit, she would say. American history is not pretty.

  Looking at Norfolk, I had to agree. The city was dead, and the Navy base had been a scene of desperate fighting. Waterfront buildings were riddled with bullet holes, windowless from explosions, gutted by fire. A big submarine lay sunk at its moorings, only its radar mast breaking the water. Several vessels had run aground or capsized. Other ships were more or less intact, including an Ohio-class boat suspended on blocks in the vast dry-dock facility. The only one that interested me was the sleek black yacht riding at anchor. I could read its name through the periscope: La Fantasma. The yacht was empty; its passengers had come ashore here.

  Assembling a shore party to salvage some critically needed items from the dry-docked boat, I consulted Cowper’s head about the necessary procedures for stabilizing our vessel.

  “I just want to make sure everything is secure before we disembark.”

  “Sounds like you’re not planning on coming back anytime soon.”

  “It may be a while.”

  “Good. Because I’ve had enough of this tub to last me an eternity.”

  As the engineering team and I entered the dry dock, we could see that we were too late: the other submarine had already been plundered. Hasty scaffolds stood in place, and huge holes had been cut in the vessel’s hull, steel carved like blubber and machinery dangling out like entrails from a beached whale. The Reactor Control Operator, Mr. Fisk, could see at once that there was little point in going aboard.

  Climbing the ramp out of the dry dock, I began to hear a rhythmic whirring sound from above. It was a thin electronic noise, like a printing teletype. It got louder, and suddenly we could see a strange creature silhouetted against
the sky. It was spindly and four-legged, about the size of a deer or large dog, but with boxy saddlebags strapped to its sides.

  It had no head.

  Even stranger, it had no presence, no life energy. As Xombies, we were highly attuned to any aura of life, but this thing was a blank.

  I asked, “What is that?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Julian Noteiro. “I think it’s a machine.”

  Without warning, the weird object erupted in gunfire—a fusillade of metal pellets issuing from where its head should have been. In an instant, half our crew was down, their bodies punched through like cored apples.

  Perhaps because Bobby Rubio and I were shorter, we escaped the first volley and jumped over the side of the ramp, clinging by our fingertips. Julian, Sal, and a few other boys did the same, dangling beside us. The bigger men all plummeted to the concrete bottom, shattering limbs and skulls.

  Seeking targets, the four-legged robot trotted down the ramp after them, its pulsing whine echoing in the chamber. As it passed me, I swung my slight body up over the ramp and tried to kick its rear legs out from under it.

  But the thing was too fast—with mechanical precision it instantly dodged my kick and fired a side-mounted cannon in my face. It was loaded with metal chaff, a hail of razorlike flakes that would have blasted me to wet spaghetti if Julian wasn’t right there, swinging his hammer against the muzzle so that the explosion backfired, rupturing the cannon and knocking the robot off-balance.

  Sal DeLuca and Jake Bartholomew used the brief chance to seize the thing and hoist it off its feet, boosting it over the side. Buzzing frantically, trying to stabilize itself in midair, the machine hit the floor and came unsprung like an old clock.

  We pulled ourselves together as best we could. In the days and weeks to come, all our injuries would fade away, but for now we mainly had to be mobile enough to walk. To this end, splints were improvised for the worst fractures, and broken heads were tied up with rags and duct tape.

  Julian was a mess, his body mangled by shrapnel from the cannon exploding, but he and the crewmen had a bigger concern: the meaning of that killer robot.

  “Somebody hadda been remote-controlling that thing,” said Cowper’s head. “Which means they’re still out there.”

  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 quickl
y 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.