Ray remembered.
He got up and boosted himself out the forward hatch.
It was a beautiful summer day, breezy and cool, with the sun mounted like a diamond in the satin blue sky. Just a hint of chop—it was a crime not to let the spinnaker out. He did so, and the boat leaped forward, heeling steeply as it bounced over the swells.
Jim Sandoval hastily appeared from below, looking weary and overcaffeinated. He had rigged up the auto tiller so he didn’t have to man the helm every second. The device was basically a hydraulic piston connected to a GPS, a robot arm that steered the boat in a fixed direction by constantly making small course corrections. But it still required someone to constantly stand watch.
“You’re awake,” Sandoval said, relieved.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I slept so long. How long was I out?”
“Almost twenty-four hours. I guess you had some catching up to do. We passed New York and New Jersey during the night—you would’ve thought it was the coast of Borneo. No, Borneo would have more lights. I figured as long as the weather’s holding up, we might as well blow past the big metroplex, just to avoid any more refugee situations. We should be around Maryland now.”
“Jeez, you should have woken me up so I could take a turn standing watch.”
“I know, but you were so zonked out, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Chandra and Fran have been sharing the duty so you guys could sleep.”
“Have you seen any other boats?”
“No. We’ve been staying out of sight of land as much as possible.”
“Right … definitely.” Ray still vividly remembered the sick feeling of being approached by boatloads of desperate refugees while the submarine had sat at anchor. It was not something he ever wanted to repeat.
A surprising number of people had initially survived the plague by taking to the water, but a month in they were all dying of hunger and thirst. Many of the boys camped on the sub’s deck wanted to offer what little help they could, but the Navy crewmen were adamant about not letting outsiders anywhere near the boat. Warning shots were fired, leading to a brief gunfight in which the sub crew’s superior firepower and marksmanship quickly knocked out the smaller boat’s wheelhouse. Ray would never forget the terrible sight of Xombies running amok aboard that rudderless refugee ship.
La Fantasma had quite an arsenal on board, including automatic weapons, long-range sniper rifles, and shoulder-fired missiles. Sandoval had made sure the yacht was well equipped to defend itself. No question the man was a survivor, and an arrogant son of a bitch, but Ray had never been more grateful to have him around.
Sandoval said, “Speaking of which, I’m not sure that spinnaker’s such a hot idea. It’s a bit … grandiose. We don’t want to give anybody any ideas.”
“Sorry, I’ll crank it in.”
“No, you may as well leave it up now. We’re almost there. How are you feeling?”
“Fine, I think. You look like you could use some sleep. Why don’t you crash for a while and let me stand watch?”
“Gladly, but first there’s something I need to talk to you about.” Sandoval took a small aerosol can out of his coat pocket. “I need a shot of this stuff about every twelve hours, or I’ll turn back into a Xombie.”
“What?”
“It’s no big deal. I’m only telling you so you don’t let me oversleep and miss a dose. I administered the last one about seven hours ago, so you have to wake me at noon.”
“What is it?”
“Just a little pick-me-up. Why do you think Xombies won’t touch us? How do you think I came back from the undead? It’s because every day we all have a special cocktail—a little Bloody Mary, made with real blood! Immune plasma, that is. It’s the simplest kind of oral vaccine: in your case, just a matter of mixing a tiny amount with any beverage, about one part plasma per thirty thousand parts juice or water, however you prefer your sangria.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s not as if you can taste it or anything. You’ve been drinking it all along.”
“Oh my God,” Ray said. “Are you serious? You turned into a Xombie and back? How?”
“I told you. It’s an experimental treatment they’re working on at Xanadu.”
“What exactly is this Xanadu?”
“It’s a private research station in Washington, DC, administered by an industrial consortium that took over the remains of the Mogul Cooperative. They’ve come up with a method of artificially inducing Agent X in very sick patients.”
“Why?”
“It’s restorative. The Maenad morphocyte is like a miracle tonic—a real-life Fountain of Youth. The problem is, it starves the body of oxygen, which causes brain damage before the benefits have time to kick in. That’s why Xombies are such maniacs. The trick is to actually speed up the rate of infection, and that’s where this stuff comes in. Don’t touch it! It’s loaded with pure poison: two time-release capsules, one containing a cocktail of potassium cyanide and Agent X, the other a dose of antibodies from immune women. They release about five minutes apart. For faster recovery, pure oxygen can be added to purge the body of Agent X. But it’s a little traumatic the first time, I gotta say.”
Ray asked, “So how many of these Immunes are there?”
“Not many. Most of them were killed off during the hysteria of the Maenad Epidemic. But the ones that do exist are priceless—Xombies won’t touch them. In fact, Maenads may actually protect them. I found three Immunes by bribing the Coast Guard to screen seaborne refugees for women of that age range. They were glad to hand them over. Chandra and I were trying to transfer them to Xanadu when Chace’s men intercepted them. As far as I was concerned, we had no choice but to try to recover them. So I entered into a partnership arrangement with Chace, assuming the role of the Prophet.
“The fish story went that I was a decorated military chaplain who specialized in benedictions for right-wing extremist groups. On the day of the Maenad Epidemic, I graduated from lay priest to Archbishop, having been granted special dispensation to receive the pallium—my new insignia of office—from a provisional papal legate rather than from the Pope in Rome. This was easy to arrange through Mogul channels, since the Vatican was in some turmoil, and there were fire sales on high office of every kind, including the Pope. All such titles were up for grabs. Only brute force mattered, and as a charter member of MoCo, I could summon quite a bit.
“I found my soul mate in Apostle Chace, whose public battles against abortion, same-sex marriage, and naked statues were legend. The postapocalyptic truce we arranged between our separate faiths was a model of cooperation that surely guaranteed us both a place at the Lord’s right hand.
“It was almost too easy,” Sandoval said. “To these guys, everything’s a sign from God; they’ve been expecting this for years.”
“Oh, they knew this was coming? Because I wish someone had told me about it.”
“Maybe they did, and you weren’t listening.”
“Now you’re scaring me.”
“What I mean to say is, I tried to warn you and your sister to get to the submarine plant by midnight. Why didn’t you?”
Ray was so shocked it took him a second to speak. “We got hung up in traffic half the night. Maybe you could have tried sending the car a little earlier. Like about a week.”
“I depended on you, Ray. And you let me down.”
“How did I let you down? You let us down, you asshole! It’s because of you my sister’s dead! If you knew that was gonna happen, you could have made absolutely fucking sure we were at that plant. You could have just told us the truth!”
Sandoval nodded, squinting through tears. He cleared his throat. “I know. I’m sorry, Ray.”
“Yeah, fuck you! Fuck you, man.”
As the morning wore on, the wind picked up, sea and sky turning slate gray. Flurries of hail spattered the deck like rice. Everyone else was still asleep, and Ray was basking in the novelty of being alone on the ocean.
&nbs
p; He was not a tremendously experienced solo sailor, having only crewed a few pleasure cruises in his life. His father was the real seaman, a lifelong Navy officer who had ultimately estranged himself from the Navy just as he estranged himself from Ray.
Both his parents were products of the postwar era, a fair-weather family who fled from Ray and each other at the time he needed them most. He pitied them their disappointed lives and wondered what had happened to them in the madness of Agent X. Not that he cared much.
Suddenly, Ray realized he was not alone—the immune girl Deena was peering at him from the companionway. “Hey,” Ray said.
“Hey,” said Deena.
“How are you? Feeling okay?” Ray still found it hard to believe that Sandoval had not only freed all of them from the Soul Patrol’s gulag but delivered them safely to this boat. And acted as though it was nothing unusual.
The girl said, “Your friend Todd is wicked seasick. He’s in there throwing up.”
“Ech—I’m sorry. You’re okay, though?”
“I think so. I’m kind of hungry. Is there any food?”
“Yeah, it’s stowed in the compartment under the main cabin. Actually, I’m starved, too. You think you could make us some lunch?”
“Sure, why not?”
“And something hot to drink, tea or coffee.”
“Sure. Can I ask you something?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh … ”
“I’m kidding. What?”
“In those clothes you look kind of … butch.”
Ray laughed. “That’s because I’m a dude.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Hey, I was out of uniform, how were you to know? And Deena?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry about your friend Ashleigh. I tried to save her.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but still … ”
She touched his arm. “Hey, man, Ashleigh had problems. After her sister died, she was never the same, so don’t take it on yourself. There was nothing anyone could have done.”
Ray broke down, and Deena comforted him. “Sorry,” he said, pulling himself together. “It’s just that I lost my sister, too. Now I really feel like an asshole.”
“Join the club,” she said. “Listen, I’m going to get us some food. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Funny. You’re very humorous.”
Deena was gone a long time. Ray wondered if the girl had blown him off, when she finally appeared with mugs of tea and hot soup, crackers spread with cheese and apple butter, sliced salami, and a selection of cookies and dried fruit.
“Wow, that’s what I call service,” Ray said. “Did you have any trouble doing all this with the boat rocking?”
“Not really.”
As they ate, Chandra and Fran appeared, drawn from their bunks by the smell of soup.
“Nice!” said Chandra, squinting in the sun. “Lemme go make some sandwiches.”
It became a picnic. Even Todd was able to take a bit of nourishment between bouts of vomiting. Sandoval remained dead asleep.
As noon rolled around, Ray went below to wake Sandoval. He was annoyed to see that a lot of the yacht’s carefully stowed food supplies had been haphazardly unpacked and were now rolling around the cabin. Cans and bottles zigzagged underfoot like small loose cannons. Worst of all, there was a powerful stench of airplane glue—a can of waterproofing sealant had spilled all over the plywood deck.
Cursing, he cleaned up the mess as best he could. As he worked, he began to feel dizzy from the fumes but was determined to muddle through. The swaying of the boat didn’t help. Having struggled as long as possible to ignore his rising nausea, he abruptly dropped everything and bolted for the fantail, puking his guts out. When he turned around, Sandoval was standing in the doorway, grinning like blue death.
“Rayyyy,” he breathed.
Trying to leap away, Ray was jerked back like a rag doll, pinned face-to-face with the black-eyed horror that had been James Sandoval.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
Crushing Ray against the deck, the Xombie pried his resisting jaws apart, stretching its own mouth wide and clamping onto Ray’s in a hellish antithesis of CPR—a kiss of death. With one suck, he collapsed Ray’s lungs. The boy heaved, convulsing as his rib cage crumpled, then went limp. Now the creature reversed the action, exhaling with all its might, inverting its own bronchial tissue into Ray’s airway to flood the dead boy’s chest with X-infected blood cells.
Ray died and was born again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
STORM
Sprawled on the aft deck like a corpse, Ray woke up with a bang. His consciousness exploded as his dying brain cells were resurrected by the invading Maenad morphocyte. He was dazzled by the strangeness and beauty of his new world: the plywood cabin transformed into a fairy cave, the sea diamond-bright and seething with energy, the sky awash with ripples of cosmic light, the clouds glowing with ethereal colors. Even by daylight, he could see the invisible tracks of time and space, the ghostly orbits of particles and planets, the rings around the Sun. And amid all these long transits of inanimate matter, the futile blip of human consciousness.
He sprang to his feet.
Todd. Poor doomed Todd. Having just been there, Ray was overwhelmed with pity … and dawning comprehension. Look at this, he thought, feeling his broken body renew itself. It was nothing. Death was nothing, not anymore. Neither was pain, nor hunger, nor any other yearning of the flesh. He no longer had to tolerate the hopelessness of human existence; he had a choice, he could do something about it. Not just for Todd, but for all the miserable human beings still teetering on the brink of death. They didn’t have to die! The dread that hung over every living creature could be vanquished. And with that realization came an electric rush of joy, an exultation born of equal parts love, lust, and evangelical ecstasy. He dove back inside to save his friend.
As if having read Ray’s mind, the woman named Chandra Stevens was waiting, staring down at him in brazen invitation, her bright inner flame making her clothes a paper lantern. Unable to resist that warmth, Ray tried to speak, to make her understand, but his words came out garbled, a drunken slur. A noise an idiot might make … or an animal.
Disdaining the faulty instrument of speech, he leaped like a wild animal, embracing Chandra in a grip of steel and pressing her body against the forward bulkhead, bending her neck back nearly to breaking. She didn’t resist, surrendering completely to the kiss, and it was only as Ray sucked the air from her lungs that he realized she had tricked him.
No!
The woman was full of pure oxygen, her blood and tissues saturated with it. She had breathed deep from an oxygen tank, hyperventilating like a free diver before descent, then took one last hit and held it. It was no experiment; she knew exactly what she was doing. Behind her, Sandoval’s body lay splayed out in the forward compartment, another casualty of her medical expertise.
Ray tried to pull away, but the gas worked too fast, wilting his undead flesh from the inside out, turning his sentient blue-black blood instantly red. That red blood jump-started his heart and hit his brain like a runaway locomotive, knocking him instantly unconscious.
As Ray came back to life, he could hear people talking about him.
“Is there going to be any permanent brain damage?”
“Shouldn’t be. We purged him before he was fully saturated. He was only dead a couple of minutes—that’s not enough time for oxygen starvation to kill many brain cells.”
“Oh my God. What’s it like, being a Xombie?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“But don’t you still—”
“Son, shut up! I’m already tense enough, all right? Whatever I am, I’m still me, no thanks to this dumb kid. If it weren’t for Chandra’s quick thinking, you’d all be screwed. Now, we don’t have time for this; we have to batten everything down for that front that’s com
ing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And make sure you get your dosage. I don’t want any more accidents.”
“No, sir.”
As the others left, Ray heard one remain behind. A soft voice spoke in his ear, “Please get better, Ray. For me.” It was Deena.
The hurricane hit.
It was not a true hurricane, merely a minor gale, but none of them had ever been on a small ship in rough seas. Sandoval and Chandra Stevens were unflappable, pretending not to be alarmed by swells that suddenly rose higher than their heads, or by waves breaking over the entire boat, or by the deck heeling over so far it became a steep hill.
But Ray could tell that his elders weren’t as confident as they pretended to be: the rabbity look in the Chandra’s eyes when the yacht shuddered under tons of whitewater, or Sandoval’s anxious silence as the boat struggled to right itself. Jim’s green face scared Ray more than the storm itself.
It was impossible to venture above without admitting a deluge into the cabin. Everything belowdecks was awash, and the bilge pump barely kept up. All aboard were soaked to the skin, cold to the bone, dreaming about a hot drink or a hot meal. More than anything, Ray was desperate to go to the bathroom—number two—but the head was a plastic bucket that had to be dumped overboard—a difficult operation under the circumstances. There was no question of opening the dive well. He held it in as long as he could, sweating out the intestinal spasms as he tried to sleep, until finally it was time for his watch.
It was after midnight. The swells were so large that the boat swooped in and out of the canyonlike troughs without much pounding, but the rain and wind were still fierce. Before Sandoval had retired for the night, they had turned off the engine and deployed the sea anchor, so the yacht was dragging along like a small man leashed to a large, eager dog.
Xombies: Apocalypso Page 20
