Xombies: Apocalypse Blues (8 page)
Read Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Online
Authors: Walter Greatshell
We passed through an open gate and entered a field of massive rusty cylinders, large as redwood trunks. Above them, disappearing into the fog, loomed a huge inert crane, a skeletal Godzilla guarding her eggs. The Sallie stopped, and with it the abuse directed at me. Everyone’s attention was suddenly focused on something down the road, some kind of winged black monolith with giraffe-speckled antennae sprouting from its crest.
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked. No one replied.
It was a very, very big submarine.
CHAPTER
SIX
SIX
A
s if dismissed from school, the boys broke formation and surged toward the sub. I was swept along in the rush, taking comfort in being momentarily ignored, lost in the crowd. Albemarle was yelling, “Hey! Hey! Wait!” but it wasn’t until the shooting started that we all stopped short.
s if dismissed from school, the boys broke formation and surged toward the sub. I was swept along in the rush, taking comfort in being momentarily ignored, lost in the crowd. Albemarle was yelling, “Hey! Hey! Wait!” but it wasn’t until the shooting started that we all stopped short.
There was a bright spike of automatic-weapons fire from the vicinity of the submarine. I couldn’t see much, caught in the sudden pileup, but I could hear an amplified voice bellow, “HALT. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA. WE ARE AUTHORIZED TO USE DEADLY FORCE, AND WILL NOT HESITATE TO DO SO UNLESS YOU TURN BACK NOW. LEAVE AT ONCE.” As the voice spoke, a harsh spotlight cleaved the mist, probing us like a boy stirring ants with a stick.
People fell back behind the Sallie or jammed into the shadows between rusty cylinders, and as I took refuge in just such a trench amid dozens of grease-smelling boys, I lost touch with Cowper. A squall of curses and complaints arose from the gang, leading me to believe all hope was lost. Then they turned on me: “You and that stupid old man! Shoulda
known
he was fulla shit! What are we gonna do now? Let them Marines fry our asses? ” At once I was being manhandled, shoved from hand to hand out of the hiding place into the searchlight’s bullying glare.
known
he was fulla shit! What are we gonna do now? Let them Marines fry our asses? ” At once I was being manhandled, shoved from hand to hand out of the hiding place into the searchlight’s bullying glare.
Then I was alone in the road, feeling very small beside the multiple tractor tires of the Sallie vehicle. One of my shoes had come off, and I could all but taste the cold, coarse macadam through my thin stocking. The spotlight was warm. In a reverie of hurt feelings, I shielded my eyes and began walking toward it.
Fine,
I thought madly. It felt good to let go. Tears streaming, I walked faster and faster, aware of nothing but my own feet and the baking noonday light. Swelling orchestral music seemed to accompany me, as if I was expected to break into some showstopping Broadway tune.
Fine,
I thought madly. It felt good to let go. Tears streaming, I walked faster and faster, aware of nothing but my own feet and the baking noonday light. Swelling orchestral music seemed to accompany me, as if I was expected to break into some showstopping Broadway tune.
Suddenly someone snatched me off my feet and dove with me out of the light. As we hit the dirt I had a strange, strong sensation of being tackled by Santa. Then my senses returned, and I realized it was only the padded costume that made me think of Santa—it was the boy in the chipmunk suit (as if that was somehow less bizarre). Over his furry shoulder I could see row after row of great wheels lumbering by, close enough to touch.
“Sorry,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Jesus, you okay?”
My cheek stung from being scuffed on the ground. I wasn’t sure what had just happened, but as the Sallie passed entirely, I saw the flattened chipmunk head in the middle of the road. Sitting up, I said, “Did you just apologize for saving my life?”
“Oh, sorry—I mean—” Before he could say more, rattling bursts of automatic gunfire broke out at the waterfront, and he threw himself on top of me, crying, “Geddown!”
But they weren’t shooting at us. They were shooting at the advancing Sallie. Gleaming under the spotlight like a monstrous sowbug, the flat juggernaut maneuvered drunkenly toward the sub, where orange-vested figures could be seen running for cover. The gunfire was coming from a white Humvee parked at dockside, which was being used as a gun rest by two men in Darth Vader helmets. Flashing jets of ammo speared out from them in a twin stream, gouging nickel-bright pocks all over the crawler and leaving red afterimages hanging in the air.
The boy’s body shuddered at each volley, his face screwed shut against the racket.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,”
he said, more to himself than to me. He was heavy, a big guy who needed a shave, but even without his mask, he had a chipmunk quality that made me want to pet him and say, “There, there.” For all the noise, I was strangely calm and couldn’t bring myself to turn away from the action though I was afraid any moment a stray bullet might catch me in the eye.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,”
he said, more to himself than to me. He was heavy, a big guy who needed a shave, but even without his mask, he had a chipmunk quality that made me want to pet him and say, “There, there.” For all the noise, I was strangely calm and couldn’t bring myself to turn away from the action though I was afraid any moment a stray bullet might catch me in the eye.
There was no stopping the thing. At the last possible second, the soldiers gave up shooting and retreated to the submarine’s gangway. Their Humvee disappeared from view as the hulking tractor closed with it and bowled it over the edge of the landing with a junkyard crash. Continuing on, the Sallie then struck the pivoting base of the gangway, buckling the narrow span like a Tinkertoy and causing the guards to fall out of sight. And still the machine kept on, jutting out farther and farther into space, making its own bridge to the submarine. I held my breath for the impending, catastrophic fall—
Penis Patrol
—but the Sallie stopped there, half its wheels frozen in midair. The sub’s searchlight stayed trained on this precarious object as if staring in disbelief.
Penis Patrol
—but the Sallie stopped there, half its wheels frozen in midair. The sub’s searchlight stayed trained on this precarious object as if staring in disbelief.
A voice issued from the deejay equipment left on the Sallie:
“THIS IS COMMANDER FRED COWPER, REQUESTING PERMISSION TO COME ABOARD.”
A man emerged from the Sallie’s unscathed rear cockpit and stood holding a wireless microphone. He wore a stunning white military uniform, with black and gold epaulets and a cluster of medals over his breast pocket. In spite of the fog, the distance, and the masterful new costume, I could see at once that it was indeed Cowper. No wonder he almost ran me down—he had been driving backward. Amazed, I pushed the boy off and stood up. Hundreds of others were coming out of hiding around us, equally bemused, murmuring in the dark.
The submarine’s loudspeaker replied, “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.”
Cowper said, “HARVEY, THIS WAS NOT MY ORIGINAL PLAN, BUT I’M TRYING TO MAKE THE BEST OF A BAD SITUATION. HERE’S THE DEAL: LET ME AND ALL THESE PEOPLE ON BOARD, THEN PUT US ASHORE SOMEPLACE HALFWAY SECURE. IN RETURN, WE’LL EARN OUR KEEP—I KNOW YOU’RE SHORT OF HANDS. THESE KIDS WILL DO ANYTHING YOU TELL ’EM, PLUS WE’VE GOT A CREW OF OLD FARTS WITH DOLPHINS WHO ARE JUST ITCHING TO GET BACK BEHIND THE WHEEL. HEY, I’LL RE-UP. WHERE ARE YOU GONNA FIND ANOTHER GUY WITH MY EXPERIENCE?”
“I’M NOT BIG ON EXTORTION, YOU SENILE SON OF A BITCH,” said Coombs.
“WHAT EXTORTION? IT’S A HUMANITARIAN GESTURE. NOT TO MENTION KEEPING FAITH WITH THESE PEOPLE . . . AND ME, FOR THAT MATTER. SANDOVAL PROMISED US—TAKE IT UP WITH HIM IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT. THE BASTID IS THERE, ISN’T HE?”
“AS A MATTER OF FACT HE’S OVERDUE. IT WOULDN’T SURPRISE ME TO HEAR THAT YOU AND YOUR MOB HAVE KILLED HIM.”
“I’M TRYIN’ TO SAVE LIVES, YOU ARROGANT PRICK, BUT IF YOU DON’T START LETTING US BOARD RIGHT NOW, I’M GONNA BACK THE SALLIE OVER YA AND SCUTTLE THE WHOLE SHEBANG. WE GOT NOTHING TO LOSE.” Cowper ducked back into the low glass cab and started the engine. To us he announced, “ALL ABOARD! NO RUNNING! BOARD THE BOAT IN AN ORDERLY WAY—THE CREW WILL DIRECT YOU BELOW . . .
OR ELSE
.”
OR ELSE
.”
We were already moving. After the first tentative steps, boys stampeded past, too rushed to give me a hard time. I could see that the collapsed gangway didn’t slow anyone down—apparently it was just as easy to hop down from the concrete ledge to the guano-caked timbers alongside the sub and from there to the stern, where a plank had been laid across. I just let myself be dragged along. Everyone else was on fire with the instinct to survive, but I felt listless and totally out of it.
Fighting the malaise, I tried to blend in with the rest as I waited for Cowper, staying close to Albemarle and the other men who were shepherding the stragglers. Below, I could see the two fallen Marine guards being fished from the water by the submarine’s crew—the guards both looked shaken but alive. Other sailors were helping boys across that finger of dark water. They didn’t look particularly resentful of us, which I found reassuring.
It was a surprise when some of them suddenly pointed weapons up at the landing and began to shoot. We were sitting ducks.
The gunfire caused shrieks of terror, and everyone dropped to the ground. No, I noticed, some of us didn’t duck, didn’t stop, but simply charged ahead with manic fury. They didn’t look right. These were the ones the sailors were shooting at. There were blue people among us, and many more coming down the hill.
Exes.
Xombies.
Xombies.
Not everyone was as slow on the uptake as I—Albemarle and the other men had already created a defensive line at the rear of the crowd and were brandishing large hammers like those used for chiseling. I would learn that these were standard equipment at the plant. “Don’t panic,” they shouted. “Just keep moving!” When a skinless creature in burnt security clothes rushed up through the fog, they all raised hammers like Thor and clouted it down. The problem was, it wouldn’t stay down, but rebounded off the pavement like a dented gingerbread man.
“It’s Reynolds!”
someone screamed.
someone screamed.
“Just like you’re marking studs, boys,” shouted Albemarle, pelting the thing again.
More monsters came tearing in, nimble as stage-painted acrobats. Keeping them off required a kind of assembly-line operation, a constant gauntlet of flying hammers, but our hundred-to-one advantage was quickly eroding. In places the line started breaking up into fractal eddies of hand-to-hand fighting. To the boys up front, who were taking their sweet time boarding the sub, these must have seemed more like fringe disturbances at a rock concert than a desperate losing battle, but for us at the rear it was doom breathing down our necks: medieval combat and middle-school fire drill rolled into one.
Then Cowper was at my side, splendid in his dress whites. “Don’t get trampled!” he shouted over my head, “We’ll make it!”
“When did you manage to change your clothes?” I asked.
“I always come prepared.”
“We can’t all fit in that submarine.”
“Sure we can,” he said. “You see those big cylinders by the road? Those used to hold ballistic missiles, but they were taken out to make room for cruise missiles and SEAL teams. That refit’s been postponed indefinitely, which leaves a big empty space inside the missile compartment—you’ll see. Don’t worry.”
I wished he looked more confident himself.
As the last of us were helped down from the platform by furiously yelling submariners
—“Get out of the way! Down, down! Move your asses!”—
the amount of shooting redoubled, and I was shocked to see how many Xombies were massed on the landing above. We were becoming outnumbered. Spent shells tinkled down the sides of the sub like slot-machine tokens, and icy water splashed me as bullet-riddled demons stage-dived off the edge to fall into the depths beneath the pier. The water was soon packed with thrashing bodies.
—“Get out of the way! Down, down! Move your asses!”—
the amount of shooting redoubled, and I was shocked to see how many Xombies were massed on the landing above. We were becoming outnumbered. Spent shells tinkled down the sides of the sub like slot-machine tokens, and icy water splashed me as bullet-riddled demons stage-dived off the edge to fall into the depths beneath the pier. The water was soon packed with thrashing bodies.
Passed bucket-brigade fashion along a line of jumpy crew-men, I finally made it up onto the sub’s runwaylike deck, its entire length crowded with milling refugees. Above us soared the mammoth black cross that was the vessel’s conning tower, a steel Golgotha beckoning the pilgrims with salvation.
Waiting my turn to go below, I prayed.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
SEVEN
T
hey weren’t letting us below.
hey weren’t letting us below.
“The hatches must be kept clear,” shouted someone at the head of the crowd. “Ship’s personnel must have free access or we cannot cast off! Make room!”
A squall of protest and pleading met this development, but we were packed too tightly to riot, and in any case, it was only those boys near enough actually to see the hatches who really objected—the rest of us knew we weren’t getting below anytime soon. The sub was hundreds of feet long and the Xombies all but upon us.
We watched helplessly as they spilled over the landing, scrambling for the best crossing and leaping like grotesque pirates for the stern. Albemarle’s thinning rear guard did its best to hold them off, but the footing down there was terrible: a slippery ramp to the sea. Men fell by the dozens, locked in death grips with twistedly grinning monstrosities as they slid out of sight. Every loss set off a new a chorus of grief. Cowper was there, and I dreaded the moment I would see him grappling for his life or being dragged into the water.
At some point the shooting stopped, and I heard people say, “They’re out of ammo.” No sooner had this idea been relayed through the crowd than there was a commotion up front.
“What’s going on?” I asked, as boys around me frantically craned their necks to see.
An obese, Buddha-faced kid nearby replied, “The crew have all gone below.”
“Maybe they’re getting more bullets,” I said.
“They’ve closed the hatches.”
A sickening weight seemed to press the air out of us.
“Well, that’s it,” someone said calmly. “We’re dead.”
“We’ve been played,” another boy agreed.
“They let us on the boat, wait until we good and trapped, then lock us out. All they gotta do now is wait—frickin’ Exoids’ll do the rest.”
“Shit, man.”
I didn’t know what to believe and wasn’t sure they did either. “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I said shrilly. “We don’t know what they’re doing down there.”
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