Read Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Online
Authors: Walter Greatshell
Xombies: Apocalypse Blues (12 page)
His grace in defeat was awesome to see—I could have kissed him for taking it so rationally. You can’t usually count on people being dignified, and to me there is nothing in the world more important, because isn’t dignity the soul of reason? It’s what makes us human.
I felt Coombs grasp my ankle, and looked down expecting to see that he had recovered consciousness. I might have been smiling in relief. But Coombs was still passed out, arms motionless at his sides. The arm that clutched my leg like a predatory squid had no body. It seemed to want mine.
Even after I managed to wrest the nasty thing loose, then hammered, stomped, and mashed it into something resembling day-old roadkill, it was a while before I stopped freaking out. People gave me plenty of space.
CHAPTER
NINE
NINE
A
fter everything possible had been done to stabilize the sub and barricade us in, the men discussed what to do next.
fter everything possible had been done to stabilize the sub and barricade us in, the men discussed what to do next.
“I know there isn’t a lot of useful information about this Maenad thing,” Cowper said, looking dreadfully tired, “but if we pool what we know, maybe we can think of a way to slow those bastids down. I know we can’t suffocate ’em, because that’s how they spread the infection, by stopping you from breathing. They give you that kiss of death, and the disease moves in. That’s why they all look cyanotic, because Agent X somehow takes the place of oxygen in the bloodstream and uses it like a highway to attack your brain and nervous system. That’s the last I heard out of USAMRIID. Anyone else hear that?”
A white-haired man with a walrus mustache said, “I saw on TV that the Centers for Disease Control were
treating
it with pure oxygen. They said it slowed the disease. That was the only good news I heard before everything went off the air.”
treating
it with pure oxygen. They said it slowed the disease. That was the only good news I heard before everything went off the air.”
Others chipped in, saying they had heard the same thing.
“Well, that’s gotta be our first move then,” said Cowper, encouraged. “We pump the oh-two content way up and see what happens.”
Kranuski was skeptical. “Are you serious? This boat has just been gutted and rebuilt. You wouldn’t believe the half-assed repair jobs I’ve witnessed over the last four weeks—I’d hardly dignify it as a refit. More like something out of Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. Enriching the oxygen mixture under these circumstances is asking for it.”
“He has a point,” said Albemarle. “One spark, and we’re toast. We know the smoke barrier’s compromised, too, not to mention the X-jobs crawling around in the works. I don’t think we can risk a fire. Especially since we don’t really know if it’ll make any difference. I’m no scientist—what do we really know about this? Enough to stake the boat on it?”
“I agree,” said Strong Man. “It’s not worth it. We’re better off fighting hand to hand, section by section.”
Cowper shook his head. “We’ve lost two people, and we’ve secured one compartment. Now we’re gonna abandon that small hedgehold and open ourselves to attack? There’s too much boat to cover; they’ll whittle us down to nothing. That’s how they get you.”
“Have you ever
seen
a flash fire?” asked Kranuski.
seen
a flash fire?” asked Kranuski.
“I’ve seen enough to know we got no choice.”
“Well, you’re acting CO,” he said scornfully. “You give the order.”
Cowper didn’t take the bait. “Keep your shirt on. Commander Coombs must have had some plan. What’d he have in mind?”
“He intended for us to use this as a base to spread out from, gradually expanding our area of control until we could seal off and quarantine the rest without hampering critical operations.”
“See, that just doesn’t work for me. The Xombies won’t cooperate unless we have some kind of clear advantage . . . which we might, if we just think about it. Look, this is a
submarine
—a highly adjustable environment. We can play with it. How can we make it uncomfortable for them?”
submarine
—a highly adjustable environment. We can play with it. How can we make it uncomfortable for them?”
“CO,” I said.
“The problem is, whatever hurts them, hurts us,” Kranuski said.
“Which brings us back to oxygen,” Cowper replied.
“I’d rather go down fighting than blow myself to kingdom come.”
“CO,” I repeated, a bit louder. Boys in the room frowned at me. Chipmunk Boy gave me a wide-eyed inquiring look and shook his head:
Don’t
.
Don’t
.
Cowper said, “Quiet, Lulu. What about controlled flooding? Or changing the air pressure? The temperature? How can we make climate control work for us?”
“Or a big dose of radiation?” another man offered gloomily.
I said, “Excuse me, but what about CO? Carbon monoxide?” My skin crawled with embarrassment, but I had to speak up. “That won’t burn as much, and it mimics oxygen in the bloodstream.”
All the boys rolled their eyes at my impertinence. “God, shut
up
,” said one, and another said, “It’s poisonous, stupid.”
up
,” said one, and another said, “It’s poisonous, stupid.”
Forging ahead as I had so many times in school, I tried, “But there are emergency air masks, aren’t there? Like on airplanes?” Almost apologetically, I added, “Isn’t that what these nozzles are for?”
There was a sudden hitch in the men’s discussion. Annoyance and confusion played across all their stubbly faces. Cowper said, “Goddammit, Lulu . . .” then trailed off in consternation.
Albemarle scratched his big head. “Kid’s right,” he said.
Without bothering to thank me, Cowper, Kranuski, and the others applied themselves to the problem of how to fill the boat with carbon monoxide. It turned out to be very simple, much simpler than I expected when I made the suggestion. All I had known was that submarines—even modern nuclear submarines—are equipped with backup diesel engines. But my trivia-packed brain did not know that these were specifically Fairbanks-Morse engines, or that they suck air from the living spaces inside the sub (drawing it in through vents at the top of the sail) and expel exhaust gases out a retractable tailpipe at the stern, creating a powerful suction that can replace the boat’s entire volume of air in minutes.
Or, by blocking the exhaust, can just as quickly flood the boat with suffocating carbon monoxide.
After a rather heated phone conversation with the engineers in back, Cowper made an announcement over the PA system:
“Attention all hands. We are about to fumigate everything forward amidships with carbon monoxide. The CO burner is to remain off. Unless you want to die, close off all vents from the forward bulkhead and don EAB apparatus. Do not remove it until I give the all clear.”
After this message was repeated a few times, orders were given to disconnect the exhaust coupling. The fresh-air intake was left shut, and the open hatch through which we had entered was ordered closed. I felt bad about this because of how it must have looked to the people stuck above, but consoled myself with the knowledge that we were doing all this for them. And if we didn’t succeed, they would live longer than any of us. We then put on the air masks that had been handed out. They looked like World War I gas masks, and could be connected to oxygen-giving metal nipples anywhere in the room. The men went around checking and rechecking them to make sure they were fastened correctly, giving the one on the unconscious Coombs extra attention.
While inspecting mine, Cowper winked at me through our foggy faceplates, and said, “Lookin’ good, sweethaht.” His gnome face was all scrunched up from the tight seal. I wanted to ask him,
Are you really my father? Would you be?
But I couldn’t find my voice, and he moved on.
Are you really my father? Would you be?
But I couldn’t find my voice, and he moved on.
When all was in readiness, he sat down on his dais, saying, “A-gangers, give Clyde a kick.”
“Engage diesel, aye,” Kranuski barked.
“Engaging diesel,” Robles said.
A deep rumble could be felt through the deck. The tension in the room was fierce—it was like sitting in a gas chamber. Hollow-voiced, Kranuski announced, “Diesel engaged . . . sir.”
“Very good, Mr. Kranuski.”
“You want gas levels, Commander?” asked Robles.
“Nah, no smog alerts. All we need to know is if it’ll kill you. Everybody keep breathing nice and steady. Don’t anybody tense up and fool themselves that they can’t breathe. There’s good clean dedicated air coming through those pipes. Relax.”
A piercing alarm started to go off. Everyone jumped, thrashing around for the source.
“Nothing to worry about!” Cowper said loudly. “Nothing to worry about! Carbon-monoxide detector—that’s what we want.”
It was an annoying noise. Kranuski and Robles roamed the various control stations, making adjustments and conferring with quiet intensity. Long minutes passed, and the air became dense and warm, causing the light to waver.
“Mr. Cowper?” I said, indicating the remains of the Xombie. Its squashed fibers were relaxing, turning from purplish blue to bright, meaty red. He nodded, trading looks with the other men. Some of the boys made muffled sounds of disgust.
Robles said, “Carbon monoxide above lethal concentrations, sir.”
“Thanks, Dan. We’ll let it go a little while longer.”
The smooth thrumming of the engine began to stutter.
“She’s starting to skip,” said Kranuski. “Not enough air.”
“I know,” said Cowper intently.
“Going to run her until she stalls?”
The old man held up a finger, as if counting down in his head. Then he said, “No. Hopefully that’s enough. Kill it, but leave the carbon-dioxide scrubbers running.”
“Diesel off.”
“Diesel off, aye.”
“And mute that damn alarm.”
Once it was still, Cowper addressed the whole ship. His amplified voice sounded thin and distant under the mask, like an old-time radio program. “Gentlemen, you are now surrounded by toxic gas. The gas is odorless, colorless, and tasteless, so you may be tempted to adjust your mask or scratch your nose. I advise you to refrain from this, because doing so will cause you to fall asleep and never wake up. In case some of you are wondering, this is
not
an attempt to smother the enemy—as far as we know, they are not vulnerable to suffocation. Quite the opposite, in fact: It’s our guess that Agent X can’t invade the bloodstream if there’s too much oxygen present. Respiration is a buffer against the disease, which is why we don’t all catch it like the flu.
not
an attempt to smother the enemy—as far as we know, they are not vulnerable to suffocation. Quite the opposite, in fact: It’s our guess that Agent X can’t invade the bloodstream if there’s too much oxygen present. Respiration is a buffer against the disease, which is why we don’t all catch it like the flu.
“In light of that, you may be curious what we’re doing. If what we think we know about Agent X is true, then flushing the boat with carbon monoxide should suppress the disease even better than oxygen does. Hopefully it’ll give us a chance to retake the boat.” He hung up the mike. “Lulu, come up here a second. Watch your air line.”
I stepped up on the periscope platform with him, and he beamed at me benevolently. I felt like a squire about to be knighted.
“Since this was your idea,” he said, “I’d like to give you the honor of locating a Xombie.”
“. . . Excuse me?”
“We need you to flush out one of them for us. See if your plan worked. Charley, put a tank on her, will ya?” A man came forward bearing a stubby yellow oxygen tank.
“Alone?” I asked. I was thinking,
This is a joke
.
This is a joke
.
“We can’t all go. What if it didn’t work? We need somebody to test the waters.”
I looked around at their tired faces, some mocking, some troubled. Cowper’s was the most indifferent, and for that I carelessly shouldered the heavy tank, saying, “Okay. Where to?” At that moment I would have jumped off a cliff to spite him.
“You see that door there?” To the others he said, “The rest of you tend goal and make damn sure nothing gets in.”
There was a brief interruption of my airflow as Albemarle switched the line. Kranuski handed me a walkie-talkie. “Lulu, take this radio and leave it on talk, like this, so we know how you’re doing. You’ve got twenty minutes of air, but start heading back after fifteen. You won’t even need that much time. Just go forward to the radio shack and come back. It’s a straight shot; you can’t get lost.”
It was strange to have him call me Lulu, like he thought he had to be chummy with the condemned. “Louise,” I muttered.
He either didn’t hear or ignored me. “You ready?” he asked.
“Just hurry up.”
Cowper signaled them to turn the wheel, which looked like a bank vault. Robles kicked the door outward, gun at the ready. I pictured a wall of water on the other side, water that became a white horizontal column, blasting these people down and drowning them so that they drifted about the flooded green room like wide-eyed statues with flowing hair. But nothing came through.
Robles patted me on the shoulder. Without irony, he said, “Hey, good luck.” Other voices also chimed, “Good luck,” and someone said, “Rock on.”
I stepped in over the raised sill and helped them close it behind me.
Standing with my back to the door, breathing bottled oxygen, my first inane thought was,
Call Control Data Institute—Today!
I was in a tight passage through ceiling-high racks of electronics, enveloped in their soft refrigerator hum. The floor was dirt-concealing flecked beige tile. Those aisles would have been just the place to conceal lurking Xombies, too, but none appeared.
Call Control Data Institute—Today!
I was in a tight passage through ceiling-high racks of electronics, enveloped in their soft refrigerator hum. The floor was dirt-concealing flecked beige tile. Those aisles would have been just the place to conceal lurking Xombies, too, but none appeared.
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