Xombies: Apocalypse Blues (14 page)

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Authors: Walter Greatshell

BOOK: Xombies: Apocalypse Blues
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He stared down at the fake wood grain of the tabletop, tracing patterns with his finger.
He continued, “A couple of weeks into the whole thing, there was a rumor at the plant that old women and little girls hadn’t caught the disease, and a bunch of the men demanded to leave the compound so they could search for family members who might have survived. It got pretty hairy before Chairman Sandoval finally agreed to let them try. We all wanted to go along, but they chose a couple of hundred adults and said that was enough. My stepdad was crazy to go, but they said he was too important.” Hector slowly shook his head, the mask blurring his features.
“They didn’t find anyone,” I said softly.
“They never came back at all.” As if brushing these matters aside, he said, “What happened to you?”
“Um . . .” I was caught off guard. My mind had turned away from all that as from a stinging-cold wind, and I didn’t know what would happen if I faced it. “I’m from California,” I said noncommittally. “My mother and I came out here to find Fred Cowper.”
“That old guy who’s in command? Is he your grand-father?”
“I think he’s my father. My mother was after him for child support. I never really knew him.”
The boy named Tyrell piped up, “Yo, that was cold, the way he turned you out to be bait for them Xombies.”
“Yeah,” Hector told me, “but he brought you here. Don’t count that out. I never got along with my stepdad, but he probably saved my life bringing me here.” Avoiding my eyes, he added, “Anyway, I, I just wanted to apologize for before . . . the way some of those guys were treating you. That wasn’t too cool; I should’ve done something sooner. I’m sorry.”
Why did he have to keep apologizing for everything? “That’s all right,” I said in confusion. Changing the subject, I asked, “How do you guys know so much about the sub?”
The severe one, Julian, replied, “They don’t know shit, but you live in a submarine factory long enough, it kind of seeps in by osmosis.”
Tyrell laughed. “Why you say that, man? He’s fuckin’ with you—they drilled us hard on that shit. Told us we couldn’t go on the boat ’less we passed BESS.”
“Bess?”
“Basic Enlisted Submarine School,” explained Hector. “Of course it was all crap—the boat was never for us. They were just jerking us off to keep their workforce on the job until the refit was done, and they could ditch our asses. Almost worked, too . . . if you and Cowper hadn’t come along.” There was a long, drowsy pause, as if everyone was digesting this point. I couldn’t tell if they were grateful or blamed me for prolonging their agony. Then, as my attention seeped away, I realized that their feelings were exactly like my own:
They didn’t care at all.
Everyone awoke to Cowper’s amplified voice ringing in our ears: “Attention all hands. Remove and stow EAB equipment—the air has been deemed fit to breathe. All nonuseful bodies—that’s you kids—report to Mr. Noteiro in Stores. He’ll show you how to whip up a great big batch a hot cocoa.”
The clock on the wall showed 3:45 A.M. It was blissful pain to rip off those masks and smell the sea air circulating through the sub. I was very thirsty.
“Cocoa.” Jake Bartholomew sighed reverently. There was a cherry red imprint around his face from the respirator.
“That cocoa’s not for you,” Noteiro said gleefully, appearing in the galley. “You’ll be servin’ it up top. Chop-chop!”
It was almost worth lugging a boiling-hot plastic drum up two flights of stairs and a ladder to see the reaction it drew. People had been huddled together for warmth most of the night, and no one had gotten any sleep. Sandoval—the man who’d hurt his leg jumping across—had moaned in agony the whole time, and apparently there had been serious talk of ditching him over the side. When they heard shots fired up the sail, then felt the diesel, there were surges of excitement, but as the night wore on, their hopes dimmed. Those of us who had gone below were written off as dead. The rest, lingering in that moonless vacuum like shipwreck survivors on a bare atoll, didn’t expect to last much longer.
When the forward hatch popped open, it was light none of them had ever expected to see again. Then to have us come up bearing hot cocoa, cookies, and blankets—we were treated like heroes, like some kind of miracle. Grown men wept and thanked God for their deliverance. The deck became a party.
I say “we” were treated—actually the crush of congratulations centered on Hector and other guys, but he held them off and pointed at me. “She’s the one you should thank,” he said. “Without her, we wouldn’t have nailed the Xombies.”
“No, it was obvious,” I said demurely, and people were happy enough to take me at my word, thanking me only for filling their cups. Maybe they thought Hector was being facetious. Not that I expected thanks, even if the rest were feted like conquerors. A little help would have been good—since I was the only one not swamped with admirers, I succumbed to the insatiable demands of the crowd, doling out seconds and thirds. There was never a break until the spigot trickled its final sludgy dregs. “That’s it! All gone!” I announced, sorry I hadn’t set aside a cup for myself.
“Dude!” exclaimed a stringy-haired character with many tattoos. “You’re bringing up more, right?”
“Not that I know of.” I knew
I
wasn’t—I could barely stand up.
He jabbed his bony finger into my chest. “Well, you better! What are you doing here, anyway? Who is this bitch? I thought women were supposed to be off-limits—disease-ridden fucking vampires—and here you are in charge of the cocoa.”
Then others were pressing in on me, among them the boy in the hairnet who had harassed me before. “Little bitch thinks she’s all that,” he said. “She thinks we gonna forget how she come bustin’ in here like she own the place, takin’ up room that shoulda gone to our families. Now she’s gonna ration out the supplies for us? It ain’t happenin’, uh-uh.” He shoved the empty barrel into my arms, nearly knocking me into the sea.
The last frayed thread of my composure broke with a loud mental
twang
, and I launched myself at the lead cretin.
“Hey!” A frail-looking man in a suit and a porkpie hat caught me from behind, gently taking the barrel from my arms and putting it down like a stool for me to sit on. His eyes were large and intense, glowing in a face like dark-stained wood. Completely ignoring the boys all around, he said, “Your name is Lulu?” His voice had a mild Caribbean lilt.
I nodded.
“I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?” My brain was spinning.
“For what you did below. I’m Hercule Banks, Tyrell’s father. He told me what happened.” Solemnly, he said, “You saved my son’s life. I believe you saved all our lives.”
I wavered stupidly, mumbling, “No, I mean . . . um . . . thanks . . . you’re welcome.”
He kissed his fingertips and pressed them to my icy cheek, then cast a baleful look at the boys. They shrank back, parting to make a path for him. As he ambled through, he tipped his hat at me, saying, “Praise Jesus.”
None of the boys would look at me after that, and soon they all melted away like wraiths into the dark. The feeling of that warm touch stayed with me much longer.
 
 
Schlepping the empty drum down to the galley, I ran into Mr. Robles and was told to report to the command center. I just wanted to collapse somewhere and sleep, so having to climb two decks back up was a really dreary prospect. Who would have expected stairs to be such an issue on a submarine?
The boat looked stripped. Everywhere I went there were raw-looking spaces where banks of computers and other equipment had been pulled out, leaving haphazardly bundled wires and bare struts. The second level was especially naked. I was to learn that most of the controls related to the vessel’s function as a nuclear-missile platform had been there, removed many months before as part of some plan to keep the Cold War-era titan strategically relevant. When that all fell apart after Agent X, the sub was up for grabs.
I still couldn’t get over the size of it. The submarine was divided into three segments, each nearly two hundred feet long and forty feet high. Farthest aft was the propulsion unit—the massive steam turbines that drove the screw, and the sixty-thousand-horsepower General Electric S8G nuclear reactor that created the steam; then the hollowed-out missile room; and, finally, the CCSM deck—the five-story command-and-control module beneath the fairwater that extended to the sonar dome in the bow. It was a large underwater building.
Cowper met me at the top of the companionway. Staving off my embrace, he handed over a big leather pouch, and said, “Take good care of this ditty bag—I’ve put a few things in there might come in handy. Don’t let that Kranuski see it, whatever you do. Come on.” Before I could reply, he began leading me aft, saying, “The natives are getting restless. I need you to communicate to them what I plan to do. Here.”
We were standing before one of the watertight doors to the missile room. He leaned his arm on the gleaming valve wheel and said in the nasal voice of an old-time elevator operator, “First floor: missile compartment. Ladies lingerie, sporting goods, household appliances, and other picture postcards.” He pulled the door open, revealing that cavernous tunnel of cargo. “Be it ever so jumbled, there’s no place like home. What do you think? Can we fit everybody in there?”
I didn’t see how. “It’s going to be hard with all that stuff in the way.”
“Yeah, they turned her into a vault. A giant safe for all their crap. Anything they couldn’t stand to leave unguarded when they closed up shop, and anything they thought they might need in the future. It’s like a do-it-yourself kit for restarting America from scratch. They probably have the formula for Coke down there somewhere.”
“So what do we do?”
Cowper either grinned or gritted his teeth, I couldn’t tell. He looked incredibly old.
“Heard of the Boston Tea Party?” he asked.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
T
he sun rising over the bay was like hot lemon and honey to the sickly cold multitudes laboring on deck. From a distance we would have looked like termites at work on a floating log, vanishing into holes and emerging with bits of stuff, then dropping it into the water. Or perhaps slaves of the pharaoh, dismantling a tomb rather than building one.
In spite of Mr. Kranuski’s and Mr. Sandoval’s strenuous objections, a bearer brigade had been organized to clear the missile room. It happened before the crew could stop it—we were ten times their number and simply piled in, There was no fighting, and they didn’t dare shoot anyone for fear of making lots of Exes.
All the next week we remained anchored off the north shore of Conanicut Island, painstakingly passing things up the three logistics hatches one at a time. There was great incentive to work fast, because as soon as floor space was cleared, it became living space, which in turn reduced topside crowding. The only problem was that much of the stuff was too big to fit through the hatches and could only be rearranged below.
“How did they ever get all this in here?” I asked Julian on the second day. I couldn’t believe how much had been done while I was sleeping.
“In port you can use a crane to lift out the entire escape trunk. Makes a much bigger opening.”
“There’s no way to do it now?”
“Well, we might be able to rig a scaffold and winch, but it’s not something I’d want to try at sea.”
“Why not?”
“Just feel. This thing rocks like a bastard. Swell kicks up, you could lose the escape trunk over the side. Then you’re left with a seven-foot-wide hole in the deck, which isn’t too good on a submarine.”
“I guess not.”
The boat itself was a breathtaking sight by day, a black peninsula almost six hundred feet long—longer, I was told, than the Washington Monument was tall. We were conspicuous in the channel, and a number of smaller vessels examined us from a discreet distance. We weren’t alone out there on the water, and as the days went by, we saw more and more refugee vessels, trickling in from all over to gather like seagulls around a dying whale.
A lot of boys were thrilled at the sight and desperate to join forces with other survivors, but word came down that we were to make no attempt to signal or in any way communicate with outsiders. If a boat tried coming to hailing range, it was warned off with a volley of gunfire. Many of us were unhappy with this, and we didn’t even get an explanation because the command center was off-limits to all but “essential personnel.”

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