Read Xombies: Apocalypso Online
Authors: Walter Greatshell
Xombies: Apocalypso (22 page)
PART III
Chesapeake
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
POWWOW
I
rode in a pickup truck squeezed between Alice Langhorne and Ed Albemarle. Alice was driving. Bobby Rubio sat on my lap. The back of the truck was full of Xombies, crammed together like sharecroppers during the dust bowl. All of us were dirty and torn.
rode in a pickup truck squeezed between Alice Langhorne and Ed Albemarle. Alice was driving. Bobby Rubio sat on my lap. The back of the truck was full of Xombies, crammed together like sharecroppers during the dust bowl. All of us were dirty and torn.
Leaving Loveville behind, we left with it the last of our humanity. All that remained was a vestigial sense of loss, as if we had awakened from a beautiful dream. A dream America that never existed except in childhood fantasies, now blown threadbare. The human world was gone; all that was left was an incantatory kick.
As we passed a weathered flag on a car dealer’s pole, a low, gruff voice started singing,
“Oh-h say can you see, by the dawn’s early light … ”
“Oh-h say can you see, by the dawn’s early light … ”
It was Albemarle. Big Ed Albemarle, who had barely begun to speak since his Resurrection as a Xombie, was singing.
For a moment we just listened, the lines of our faces traced in grime. Then, softly, tentatively, we sang along. After a minute or so, the feeling passed, and we stopped.
The submarine was just as we had left it. We took her back to blue water and dove deep, licking our wounds. We stayed down there a long time, months perhaps, wrapped in darkness and silence. Then we heard something that woke us up: the throbbing of human hearts. A reservoir of hot blood suspended in the cold sea.
It was another submarine, passing right over our heads. Not the French boat. This was an American submarine—Virginia-class.
There was no discussion; we had to get them. As the crew set about surfacing the boat, the senior officers dressed in the most official-looking costumes they could find. Donning his never-worn admiral regalia, Coombs went to the bridge and turned on the ULF secure channel:
“Attention, Virginia: This is a message for Commander Arnold Parminter, from Admiral Harvey Coombs. We are at the rendezvous point, awaiting contact.”
There was no reply. Coombs was reluctant to repeat the message, not wanting to raise undue suspicion. It was a risk to broadcast his position at all, which in ordinary circumstances would have been a serious breach of operational security—just as answering his message would be. Submariners were trained to be cautious; they didn’t call it the Silent Service for nothing. But circumstances had changed—times were desperate, human voices scarce. One might reasonably expect a slight relaxation of military formality.
Finally, a wary voice cut through the static: “Sorry, Admiral, we’re having a bit of a debate here about protocol. Please identify your boat again?”
“My boat has no official identity because it was decommissioned and secretly refitted for a classified operation known as SPAM—Sensitive Personnel and Materials. The SPAM mission no longer exists, but we are still custodians of the cargo, which includes several hundred tons of food and other basic provisions.”
“And why are you sharing this information with us?”
“You’re Americans. You and your vessel are a vital strategic resource. It’s our duty to assist you in any way we can.”
“What is it you want from us?”
“Nothing at all, other than whatever information you can provide us in locating other survivors like yourselves, either military or civilian. Anyone we can help, or who can help us. We are very much in need of a submarine port facility where we can overhaul our vessel.”
“Join the club. From our experience, all shore facilities are … unsafe.”
“Then we need to talk about that.”
There was a pause, and Phil Tran whispered, “They’ve locked torpedoes on our radio signal.”
Coombs said, “Be aware that if you fire on us, we will fire back. We have torpedoes loaded and preset. But we didn’t come here to fight; we would rather join forces with you.”
“Sounds like you may need us more than we need you.”
“What have you got to lose?”
“Our starry-eyed optimism? Cut the shit, man. We heard the Mogul Cooperative was out of business.”
“It is. We are not MoCo.”
“And we just have to take your word on that.”
“It cuts both ways.”
“Life’s a bitch, is that it? All right, stand by; I’m giving the order to surface. Here’s how it’s going to work: Upon visual confirmation of our positions, we will each dispatch a runabout with our executive officers for debriefing. If everything you say checks out, we will then heave to and all have a big powwow together. If not, or you do anything that makes me or my crew nervous, you will be treated as a menace and destroyed. Are these conditions acceptable?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s proceed.”
The formalities were discharged without incident, and the captains arranged to meet over a celebratory meal in the larger submarine—ours.
Captain Parminter’s entourage came with good appetites; they had heard how well their XO was treated during his visit. He had made a full report of the mysterious boat, mentioning that it had undergone extensive modifications at the hands of its largely civilian crew, many of them teenagers, but the Virginia’s people still weren’t prepared for what they saw when they stepped aboard the USS
No-Name
.
No-Name
.
“Oh my God,” said Parminter, shaking his head.
The exterior of the ship, its matte black anechoic skin, was spray painted with colorful graffiti, most conspicuously a garish pirate emblem high up on the fairwater: a grinning skull with two crossed hammers. It looked like a giant tattoo.
Belowdecks, things only got worse. “What is this,” Parminter muttered, “The Fun House?” He wasn’t exaggerating; the boat was dark and cold, its steel corridors rotten with thick formations of an unusual substance, some sort of blue lichen or moss that was causing all the paint to peel.
“Why?” Coombs asked. “Having fun?”
“What is this stuff?”
“Oh, that? That’s … mildew.”
“Mildew?”
Parminter would clearly have to have a word with his XO for not including this in his report. He had never seen anything like it in his life. The stuff was velvety to the touch, slightly luminous in the shadows. It smelled strongly of iodine. “My God. Are you serious?” Every metal surface bulged with this organic, fungal padding, turning linear corridors into leviathan guts. The mechanical made flesh.
Parminter would clearly have to have a word with his XO for not including this in his report. He had never seen anything like it in his life. The stuff was velvety to the touch, slightly luminous in the shadows. It smelled strongly of iodine. “My God. Are you serious?” Every metal surface bulged with this organic, fungal padding, turning linear corridors into leviathan guts. The mechanical made flesh.
But his men were starving, and what they saw next shocked them out of their dismay.
The crew’s mess had been cleared except for one table. The room was dim, lit by a single lamp, but the men could see a gorgeous table set with a blue linen tablecloth, cloth napkins, expensive silverware, and fine china decorated with the boat’s crest.
None of that meant anything to them; what they cared about was the food.
It looked like a fancy luau, a regular Thanksgiving feast, with enormous gourds serving as tureens, and a whole roast pig garnished with unusually large, glistening vegetables and fruit. In the center was a silver dome, and next to it a platter holding a spectacular arrangement of glossy red steamed crabs layered on a bed of lacy black seaweed. Smaller side platters were filled with mountains of gooseneck barnacles, mussels, oysters, and other hull-dwelling shellfish. There were peculiar sausages and cheeses and a wicker basket piled high with warm, crusty loaves of bread. To accompany the food was a case of fine French champagne—Bollinger—perhaps the last ever to be drunk.
Once the men had all taken their places and the champagne had been poured, Coombs raised a glass: “To the journey.”
“To the journey,” the guests agreed, eyes fixed on the food. They were dizzy from hunger and lack of oxygen.
“Well, dig in.”
The men reached for the feast … and the feast reached for them. Crabs became grasping, clawed hands; the roast pig reared up and became a headless human torso, innards flailing; veggies turned to writhing gobbets of flesh; loaves to severed limbs. As the visitors recoiled in panic, they realized they were anchored to their seats by vines of sticky living sinew. They shouted, trying to break free, but the undead tissue was immovable, tough as old tree roots. It covered the mouths of all but Parminter, silencing their screams.
I entered the room, followed by little Bobby Rubio and a few other boys.
“What do you think you’re doing?” cried Parminter.
“Saving you, sir,” I said.
“What kind of damn freak show is this? Why are you doing this to us?”
“Because we must,” I said. “Because we’re the only ones who can.”
“What the hell are you?”
“Friends.”
“Friends my ass. You’re using people as fucking live bait!” To Coombs he said, “I see how it is, Harvey: They let you live so you can help them hunt down every last straggler. You rotten bastard, you’re a traitor to the human race. And what happens when we’re all gone? Have you thought of that? Are they going to just let you sail around the world like this forever? No—then it’ll be your turn.”
Coombs said, “I’ve already been converted.”
“You’re not a Xombie! You’re still human!”
“Things are not as black and white as you think. Some of us have found it’s better to be … flexible.”
I nudged Bobby forward, since he looked the least threatening of any of us. A perfectly ordinary little kid.
“Show ’em,” I whispered.
Bobby held up his right hand to make a fist. With a crackling sound, the fingers merged together, forming a smooth ball.
“Holy shit!” Parminter said.
The ball now began to expand, swelling larger and larger, pulsating like bubbling porridge. While this was happening, Bobby’s face suddenly crumpled inward, withering like a prune, as if his entire head was being sucked into his neck. A moment later, the swollen ball of his hand unfurled into a thing very much like a face. It quickly became Bobby’s face—Bobby’s whole head. The shrunken bulb that had been his head now divided into five lobes and blossomed into a perfect human hand atop his neck. It waggled its fingers.
I said, “You see?”
Parminter threw up. Eyes full of horror and rage, he turned to Coombs. “How can you let them do this to you? To the human race? They’re monsters! You’re the captain of a U.S. Navy vessel, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’m not the captain,” Coombs said.
“What? Then who is?”
“Fred Cowper.”
I gave a silent command to the man sitting beside Parminter, Lieutenant Dan Robles. Robles reached across the table to the covered dish in its center, the pièce de résistance. With a reproachful look at me, he lifted its bell.
There was a severed head underneath—a bald blue head that was no longer remotely human but which had once belonged to Captain Fred Cowper, retired. Parminter knew Cowper well; he had trained under him and had the highest regard for the man. Cowper had been an old-school submariner from the early days of the nuclear Navy. The technocrats hated him, but to Parminter he was the real thing, a no-bullshit maverick—the kind of guy you could bet your life on in a tight spot, whatever the cost to the Navy. Or to himself.
Well, it had cost Fred everything this time—everything but his head. But that head was alive, an independent entity with multiple little legs, its huge black eyeballs fixed on Parminter.
“Hiya, Arnie,” it croaked.
“That’s not Cowper!”
Parminter objected. “You’re not Fred Cowper, you fucking ghoul!”
Parminter objected. “You’re not Fred Cowper, you fucking ghoul!”
“I yam what I yam,” said Cowper’s head.
“You think you’re going to get away with this? If my men don’t hear from me in the next ten minutes, they will blow you out of the water.”
I said, “In ten minutes, you’ll understand.”
“Understand what? What the fuck am I going to understand? That a bunch of twisted monstrosities have taken over a submarine? That they’ve learned to play human?”
Cowper’s head opened its jagged-toothed mouth and guffawed.
A bit miffed, I said, “No … that we are the last hope of Mankind.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Life on Earth is going to be wiped out. The only thing that may survive is our kind.”
“Malarkey!” Cowper shouted.
Parminter asked me, “How do you know that?”
“We can see it.”
“See what?”
“The future. Every person we save is a thread of our human destiny—an irreplaceable piece of genetic memory going back a billion years. A clue to the ultimate puzzle, which we may one day be called upon to solve. There’s not going to be any more evolution, no future generations—we’re it. The restoration of our species depends upon how many lives we save. Lose one person, and we lose all their stored equity—and that is forever. Eternity is a long time to be cooped up together; we’ll want all the company we can get.”
Other books
Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland by Lara Reznik
Inside American Education by Thomas Sowell
Katie's Way by Marta Perry
The Marathon Conspiracy by Gary Corby
When Only Love Remains by Durjoy Datta
The Egyptian by Layton Green
Where Love Begins by Judith Hermann
Rise of the Undead 1943 by Presley, David
The Body in the Basement by Katherine Hall Page
