Apocalypticon x-2 Read online

  And now, from the water, other beings began to rise. Slowly, ponderously, like mosquitoes being birthed from the husks of their aquatic larvae. First just eyes gleaming wetly, then whole gaping faces, mouths and noses streaming seawater, then rubbery-slick shoulders, trunks and gangling arms, finally naked blue feet treading indifferently through the polluted muck of the shallows, turning up rusty nails and broken glass secreted in the silt. The wire connecting them to the boat and each other was draped with slime-was it threaded through their bodies?

  Lulu and her landing party passed the first of the still-glimmering braziers, a steel grate rising on a pedestal from the water, its contents now burnt down to a smoldering toxic slag of tires and plastic and crackling human bones. Black leaves of charred debris twirled slowly in the current.

  The gondola scraped ashore at the foot of a concrete ramp, and Lulu stepped off without getting her feet wet. Ed Albemarle took the lead, all the rest trailing him in a loose V formation, their bodies strung along a high-tensile braided steel cable that was threaded through their spines and rib cages. The Moguls had wired them so for ease of handling, and the submarine's skittish crew had demanded they remain that way. Lulu was the only one able to walk freely.

  She followed as they emerged on a waterfront path, a strip of parkland bordering a road, with quaint old buildings of brick and quarried stone on the far side. There was a little debris on the ground-broken glass, loose shoes, windswept paper, and other trash. The windows regarded them blankly.

  "You're doing fine," said the disembodied voice of Alice Langhorne, piping from a tiny portable speaker. "Cross the street and keep going up. You're looking for Benefit Street."

  They entered the city. The way was narrow and increasingly steep, archaic and picturesque, with Colonial-era structures all around: residential houses, taverns, lawyers' offices. An art-house cinema advertising a Chinese love story. Lulu could see a number of steeples ranged along the hill and a golden dome. Some windows and doors had been broken open, and there was weather damage-wires down, broken tree limbs-but with the budding spring foliage, the scene was peaceful, nearly pleasant.

  Continuing up two blocks, they found Benefit Street. "Now turn left," Langhorne instructed. "It's a few blocks down, on the left-hand side-you're looking for a red house, number 182. The Lazarus Speake House."

  As the sun came up, they passed the Greek-columned Athenaeum Library (its chiseled inscription: COME HITHER EVERYONE THAT THIRSTETH), then crossed above the white edifice of the First Baptist Church. Cars were sitting abandoned in the intersection, their doors hanging open. A few buildings farther down, they found the address they were looking for, a small, steep-roofed red cottage teetering on the brink of a cliff overlooking downtown. It had tiny windows, built for a time when people couldn't afford the luxuries of light and fresh air, when they huddled close together for warmth. It was nothing, little more than a shack. This was Uri Miska's infamous laboratory?

  "Go inside," Langhorne said.

  The front door was already open, a trail of soggy personal debris scattered along the walk, mostly books and artwork, a trampled Klimt print-glints of gold amid the trash. They crowded in. It was just as cramped as it appeared, with a low ceiling and several small rooms. The rear ones were brighter, facing the sunrise. The furniture had all been torn apart with ruthless efficiency; the place had clearly been searched, stripped. And it hadn't been an easy job, judging from the number of bullet holes riddling the plaster.

  As they kicked their way through the wreckage, there were weird rustlings underfoot. Something scuttled crablike into the corner, and Lulu could see it was a disembodied hand. There were a number of hands loose in the room, some with partial arms. There were also legs and feet, as well as squirming organs of all types. The heads had mostly been blown to bits, but they were around, too, eyeballs creeping like snails. Clearly a lot of Xombies had been blasted to pieces by whoever sacked this place.

  It meant nothing to Lulu. Her interest was purely abstract as they checked the attic, then the basement, beginning to realize that there was nothing here. No Miska and certainly no laboratory-Dr. Langhorne was wrong, or deliberately lying, as the living were prone to do. To uselessly prolong their dwindling span of life. They would do anything for that. Lulu remembered well.

  "Look under the furnace," Langhorne said. "Move it aside. I'm pretty sure there's some trick to it."

  There was an ancient, rusty furnace in the middle of the basement floor, a heavy contraption set on a huge stone slab. It looked impregnable. Albemarle and Lemuel-the biggest guys-were about to try tearing it loose, when Lulu noticed four massive iron bolts anchoring it in place. They looked like they had been there for hundreds of years, but suddenly Lulu sensed an odd dampness about them, a wispy condensation like swamp gas. Breath from a tomb. Wait-see? Without exchanging any words, she set her boys prying up the bolts. Once they discovered that the threads were backward, it was simple. In moments, the whole furnace and slab slid easily aside as if on casters. There were stairs underneath, descending into darkness. "Xibalba," Langhorne breathed. "All right, gentlemen. I want you to know that I do not relish taking command in this way. In fact, if there were any other alternative, I would gladly pursue it, even to the extent of resigning my commission. But we have no legal recourse here, no grievance committee, no avenue of escape whatsoever. We are all in the same boat, so to speak. What I want you all to know is that I am here to represent you, the ship's officers and able seamen. That includes those of you who may disagree with my present actions. But I think it safe to say that most of us here have become increasingly unsatisfied with command decisions that reflect neither the legitimate concerns of this crew nor any ordinary military protocol. Of course this is not an ordinary situation, but that makes it all the more crucial that we act with uncompromising rigor in approaching this new set of realities. That we acknowledge that we are a priceless national asset and must act accordingly to ensure our survival. That the preservation of this vessel and its functional crew must now trump any other consideration-at least until such time as we receive orders to the contrary from whatever senior authority may still exist. We are privileged to have the means to seek out such authority, and I intend to do so. Until then, this submarine is our sacred trust, which we are sworn to deliver; these decks represent American soil. That means this boat is America, gentlemen. Therefore, I say to you: Anything that is incompatible with the smooth functioning of this vessel must be rejected. Swiftly and with extreme prejudice. Any questions?" Kranuski searched the crowded mess hall for doubters.

  "All right, Captain," said Dan Robles, standing by the juice machine. He could feel Webb's murderous stare. "What do you propose to do about the provisions? Those kids back there are starving."

  "I'm glad you asked that, Lieutenant. That's my first order of business. We can no longer afford to consider ourselves a refugee ship. Everyone on board has to bring something to the table-it's a simple matter of fairness. We all have to earn our keep. Out of eighty-eight boys back there, only about half are working on qual cards. The rest are just taking up space. That can't continue-we can't afford it. So I propose we kill two birds with one stone: Send the unskilled out on a foraging run. We're stuck here until the next tide anyway. Might as well get those kids earning their keep."

  "They'll be wiped out!"

  "Not necessarily. We don't know exactly what conditions are like ashore, but so far there hasn't been a single Xombie sighting. The only excitement has come from the living: those fires and that survivor kid-another refugee, just what we need. Even Langhorne admits the streets are clear. The only creeps out there are hers."

  Phil Tran stepped forward. "Some of those kids can barely stand up, much less go on a raiding party. They're undernourished, half-sick."

  "Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?" said Kranuski, baldly scornful. Phil Tran had some slight medical training, a couple of years, but he was really a sonar expert. Their original medical officer had bought i
t two months ago, when out of Harvey Coombs's stupidity Xombies briefly got loose in the boat. Since then, Tran was accorded the role of corpsman-everybody was doing double and triple duty on this cruise. That didn't give him the right to act like Dr. House.

  Kranuski continued, "Anyway, that's the whole point-they're not going to get any fatter if the food runs out. Should we send essential personnel out there? Is that what you're suggesting? Or should we just wait in this boat until we all starve? I think not. So, Phil, because you're so concerned with those kids' welfare, I'm making it your duty to choose up a shore party and organize the field trip. Map out a location, brief them, and send them on their way. You have thirty minutes. Anything you need, talk to Mr. Webb-he's acting XO. Just make sure to have them back by 0900. That's when we sail."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FIELD TRIP

  Crisis management was an oxymoron. Virtually every relevant government entity succumbed in the first few minutes: The Federal Emergency Management Agency, the Department of Homeland Security, the National Guard-all folded instantly. Before midnight, there was a functioning body known as the Pentagon-after midnight, there simply wasn't. The building was still there, just as imposing, but within it was a chamber of horrors-a thousand-room death trap. There is evidence that a number of male employees locked themselves into offices, restrooms, closets, or any other hiding places they could find, desperately attempting to call out. As we have seen, this was as ineffectual as the popguns wielded by security personnel. The phone lines were jammed, no help was forthcoming. A voice believed to be that of Army Chief of Staff Bernard Tate recorded this phone message: "All the women staff are (unintelligible)-they're taking over the building! Send troops, send (unintelligible)! We're trapped in the utility room behind the General's Mess, but they know we're here. Oh my God… oh my God-(unintelligible)-mania of some kind, chemical warfare. It's spreading like wildfire, infecting the men. They don't stay down! Get away from the door! Get back, get back, shit-(unintelligible screams)." -The Maenad Project Three hours, that was all they had. Squinting out at the clear light of dawn, they knew it wouldn't be long enough. Not nearly long enough.

  Emerging on deck, pale and thin as convicts from a dungeon, the boys wept at their first glimpse of daylight in months. Not since they had first taken refuge in the factory had they felt actual sun. Or the touch of a gentle breeze. Or seen green grass and trees on the shores of a beautiful shining city, close enough to make out the red word BILTMORE on one of the buildings. They were home again. It was a wonderful morning to be out on the water, a wonderful time to be alive. Whatever happened, they were glad to be going ashore.

  While the rafts were being inflated, Sal DeLuca had a vivid memory of looking out over this bay with his father at the final company picnic. It was the last meal they ever shared together.

  Barbecue grills made from steel barrels, flickering and smoking, the stiff breeze wafting the smell of sizzling chicken and steak across rows of crowded picnic tables. Whitecaps surging up Narragansett Bay like runs of bluefish. The sun had set on the land, but a cruciform black monolith rose high enough out of the water to be transmuted to gold under the purpling sky. It was the fairwater or sail-what laymen would call the conning tower-of an Ohio-class nuclear submarine.

  Cries of seagulls and blustering wind were the only sounds as all in attendance had watched a bearded man in a baseball cap climb the hastily erected dais. The man gripped the podium in both hands as if drawing support from either the wooden stand or the dynamic company logo on its face. Those closest to him could also make out the dolphin crest on his hat.

  First of all, he began, I'd like you all to give yourselves a hand for continuing to work and serve your country under the most difficult conditions imaginable. You are all American heroes, and will surely be honored as such by posterity.

  The crowd applauded, though not as one. There were islands of stony discord.

  What's going on? Sal whispered to his father, sensing trouble.

  Ssh!-just pay attention.

  The speaker continued: When we got the contract to refurbish this decommissioned vessel from ballistic capability to tactical uses, all of us were relieved: It meant our jobs were safe. People chuckled. We never imagined that this boat might be the only cradle of whatever hope is left to us in this world.

  Gloom descended, and the man paused a long time, the bill of his baseball cap hiding downcast eyes. When he continued, it was in a somber tone. So many things could have made this chance impossible. Imagine if instead of being refurbished, the boat had been scrapped. Or if the harbor had never been dredged deep enough to float a boat this size, and we still had to barge them to Groton piecemeal. Or if the OEM's SPAM mission hadn't come along, providing us with everything we've needed to remain operational behind these gates, including fuel for the boat's reactor-we couldn't have done anything without that power. We have Chairman Sandoval to thank for these things, and I hope you'll all join me in giving him a round of applause.

  There was a wary smattering of applause.

  I know how hard you've all worked, pulling out those old missile tubes and launch systems, retrofitting that compartment for cargo, going over every system on the boat with a fine-tooth comb. And I know what you've been hoping to get in return-it's the same thing we've all been hoping for: safe passage out of here for ourselves and our families. The boat seems ideal for the purpose: a big, empty submarine with a reactor good for twenty years. Who could blame us for thinking-

  Noah's Ark, a man yelled. Scattered amens were heard.

  The speaker smiled wanly. Exactly, Bob. Noah's ark. I hear you, believe me. And I know a number of you folks have been determined to launch her with that very name. Unfortunately, she is still the province of the U.S. Navy, and as they have not granted us official license to rechristen her, she will remain nameless for the time being.

  Some people made muted resentful sounds. The one named Bob, a burly man with white hair and a yellowed beard, said, It's okay to steal it, but not to name it? Come on, the Navy's out of business-they don't care how we use this thing.

  Nobody's stealing anything, Bob. In fact, that's why we've assembled you all here this evening. As many of you may know, the supply barges have stopped coming. We suspected something was wrong in New London last week, when our tug couldn't raise anyone on the ship-to-shore. We've also lost radio contact with COMSUBLANT, with Secretary Clark at Norfolk, with Admiral Stillson at NavShip, and with the USS McNabb, which means the Coast Guard is effectively out of commission. We've had no substantive communication with any military or government authority for eight days now; the lines are all down.

  Damn, said Gus DeLuca, Sal's father, as a ripple of anxiety swept the crowd.

  Raising his voice, the speaker admonished them not to panic. When they had subsided a little, he said, Now I know a lot of us had high hopes that we could use this vessel as a means to secure our families until the crisis stabilizes. Listen to me. But because of the loss of outside support, we are simply not going to have the provisions that we thought we would. Listen, please! The contingency plan now is to move the boat offshore with a minimal Navy crew and to have her remain at a classified blue-water station until otherwise ordered… as a matter of national security-He had to shout above the sudden, furious din. Listen, please-as a matter of national security! Please, there is no sense in all of us starving at sea! Not when we have a secure compound and everything we need right here-

  Better we should starve on land? someone yelled. Or worse?

  Oh my God, that's it, said Mr. DeLuca, eyes welling with tears. It's all over.

  I knew it, said Sal.

  The bearded man, Bob Martino, stood up in the encroaching twilight, and shouted, Are we gonna take this, people? We busted our asses for the last month making that tub into a safe haven for our sons, so they wouldn't have to end up the way our wives and daughters did. And these bastards have known all along that empty promises were the only leverage they had to keep us w
orking here. And now they think they're gonna take that hope away from us, buy us out for the price of a chicken dinner! Well, we got news for them, don't we? They got another think comin'! They got-

  There was a sharp little crack-just a twig snapping, barely audible over the hubbub-and Bob Martino abruptly toppled backward, falling between the benches. A few men and boys cried out or cursed; the rest went dead silent. It was far from the first sudden death they had witnessed.

  Gentlemen, said the ashen-faced speaker, I am so terribly sorry. It's a horrible thing… a horrible thing to have to do. But Bob knew, as we all do, that the security of this compound depends upon our complete cooperation. The security personnel seated among you are trained professionals who are under strict orders to prevent this facility from falling into chaos. Try to remember that it's for our own safety. Please let us respect and thank these men for their courage in… executing this most difficult of duties. Thank you, Officer Reynolds.

  Officer Beau Reynolds nodded grimly, still brandishing his pistol. The other ex-Special Forces men at his table cast hard looks back at the crowd, searching for defiance. Two of them wasted no time trussing Bob Martino's limbs and dragging him away in a plastic bag-to be burned, Sal knew. It was the only way. He had heard of the same thing being done with stray refugees who tried to enter the compound; a matter of blunt pragmatism-you never knew who was going to come back. As the bag started to bounce wildly, Sal felt his father grip him by the arm. Don't look at it, Sal. His dad choked out the words. I'm so sorry to put you through this.

  It's okay, Dad, it's okay, Sal said. I've seen worse.

  Later that evening, back in the hangar, things were unusually quiet. There hadn't been much talking since the shooting, and no more work was getting done. For once the boys had all the time in the world to goof off… but nobody was in any mood for the usual teenage horseplay.