Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Page 11

  Inside was a heart-shaped locket on a chain and a set of pictures. They were well-worn, as if they’d spent ages in a wallet. In the locket was a trimmed photo of a prune-faced newborn. Was that me? Had Cowper, proud papa, taken the photo? I picked it out and on the back someone had written, Terminal Island Nav. Shipyard, CA. On the margin was a meaningless notation: 4 ABL S FR 13. At first glance I thought it was some cutesy Valentine-candy sentiment—4EVER 2GETHER or something—then I tried deciphering it, but couldn’t come up with any initials or abbreviations that fit. Something something Friday the 13th? I gave up for the moment.

  The other photos had nothing to do with me . . . and everything. They were older than the first, faded, and showed polyester artifacts from the seventies and eighties. They were of a younger Cowper with his family: a wife who was not my mother, a daughter who was not me. All of them aging through several jumps in time, the last one showing the pretty blond daughter in cap and gown. Years and years of happiness.

  This had been his life. He had lived his whole life before I was ever born, and by that time I must have seemed like such a bother. Been there, done that. And my mother? Had she come in at the end and brought it all down—the Other Woman? Could I honestly say I was surprised? Wasn’t this exactly what I suspected all those years? I wanted to kick myself for the dumb-animal hurt I was feeling. No wonder. I fumbled the pictures back into the envelope and could barely hear the people talking to me as I left the head, suddenly desperate for fresh air. Yup, I thought, no wonder.

  As the missile room was gradually cleared, I found it astounding to gaze up from the lead-bricked bilge into those soaring cathedral heights. For twenty years it had contained a forest of twenty-four Trident missile silos, each one seven feet wide, extending through every deck. Its crews had been accustomed to jogging laps around its perimeter—nineteen to the mile. The “trees” were gone, the steel-grated decks perforated like a colossal Swiss cheese or ripped out altogether, leaving airy chasms surrounded by red caution tape. Fanciful assemblies of scaffolding and plywood rose like primitive cliff dwellings to the upper tiers, and it was up these we ported the endless tons of freight. Even though we worked in twenty-minute relays and labor-saving pulley systems were in place, it was the most exercise I’d ever known. I worried about getting a repetitive-stress injury, but said nothing.

  Perhaps because those first days were so uncomfortable, so full of head bumps, stair-climbing, and sleeping on hard floors, the awesome vessel quickly lost its mystique and became the “Motherfuckin’ torture chamber of Jacques Cous teau,” as Tyrell put it. But everyone took care not to grumble in the presence of the Navy people, who were understandably touchy and more than willing—in fact eager—to send anyone ashore who wanted to go.

  That was illustrated during one of our meager meals, when a group of kids began clamoring for seconds. They were the guys my mother would have called MABs—More Attitude Than Brains. It had already been explained to everyone that provisions were low and never intended to feed so many, but accepting this in the abstract and being faced with half a cup of grits, a slice of bacon, and a spoonful of fruit cocktail as the big meal of the day were two different things. Their complaints ignored, the boys started throwing the extremely short supply of dishes and silverware overboard.

  As the strike began to spread, the volunteer cooks (of whom I was one), were told to clear an area of deck, then stood by while Robles and a gorilla-chested officer named Alton Webb quickly inflated a large rubber boat. The vandalism subsided as this strange activity progressed. Then Webb took long-handled prongs and gleefully began stalking the crowd. “Who’s going?” he challenged. “Come on! Who’s not happy? Speak up!”

  This went on for an agonizing twenty minutes, as he singled out the ringleaders and made them beg to stay aboard. By the end I thought he had carried it a bit too far—they were groveling worms, puking in fear. I even felt sorry for the hairnet boy, Mitch, who got clobbered for mouthing off.

  At last they were put to work stowing the raft, cleaning the deck, and washing the remaining dishes in buckets of seawater. They were very careful.

  As the days went by, the number of people above dwindled, beginning with those who were ill or otherwise thought to be at risk from exposure. After sleeping both indoors and out, I actually found camping on deck to be preferable, not least because it was softer—the hull was slightly padded with rubber to make the boat stealthy—but also because by the fourth night it was a regular jamboree, with strings of Christmas lights, makeshift tents, hot-water showers, outhouses, and plenty of headroom.

  A semblance of privacy finally became possible. The top secret bales and boxes going over the side were raided for building supplies: cardboard and plastic for shelters; mattresses of bubble wrap or foam rubber; Styrofoam hobo furniture. Stacks of blast-hardened laptop computers were passed around like party favors.

  I did feel kind of bad about all this, as if we were doing something that could never be undone, but that was like saying our survival mattered less than a lot of blueprints and widgets and technical manuals.

  And the view up top was better. Looking at the serene shores of Narragansett Bay, I did not feel so encroached upon by the apocalypse. There was no visible destruction, just the ever-changing panorama of water, sky, and house-dotted landscape as the tides lazily swung the boat on its anchor chain. Gulls were always present, but we also saw cormorants and even fat white swans. Life seemed to be going on.

  I was not exactly “one of the guys” but Hector and Julian made me welcome in their clique, though it was obvious that my presence cramped their style. I’m sure it was a relief to them that I spent most of my free time catching up on Submarines 101, using materials Robles made available to me. Such technical material had never interested me before; perhaps I’d simply never had the incentive. Suddenly it was fiction I couldn’t bear. There were DVDs for everything, and that terabyte-chomping military laptop was a welcome change from my old funky Pack ard Bell, still loaded with Windows 95. When I wasn’t learning acronyms, I was helping Mr. Noteiro or Mr. Monte prepare and serve the twice-daily civilian ration.

  At night there was a lot of prayer, hymn-singing, and purging of grief. Just about everyone on board was either Catholic or Baptist. As an agnostic, I refrained from joining in these sessions though at times I went along with it to avoid drawing attention to myself. In the presence of religion or sports I’ve always felt like an anthropologist observing headhunters—best to keep a low profile. My mother had a religious side that I never found very attractive. Despite my care, it still became an issue.

  Five days in, I was approached to lead the group in prayer. It was a welcoming gesture, their way of saying I was okay, but it was a little much for me, and I begged off, citing stage fright. They wouldn’t let it go, countering my every excuse until finally there was nothing left but to concede I was a heathen. By then I was mad.

  They asked me, “Doesn’t it matter to you that you’re going to Hell?”

  “I’m used to it by now.”

  “Don’t act like it’s a joke! For all you know, maybe this is Hell. Maybe it’s atheists like you that brought this down upon us.”

  “I’m not an atheist, though.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “I don’t believe or disbelieve. I don’t think it’s possible to know, but I’m open-minded about it.”

  “Jesus doesn’t abide fence-sitters. The Lord spits them from His mouth like lukewarm water.”

  “Spitting spreads disease.”

  This pointless back-and-forth went on and on until I finally pretended to start crying and did my whole little waif act. Then they backed off and let me sleep.

  Late that night I awoke in the grip of death.

  “You unclean bitch. You little whore,” rasped a hooded face inches from mine. “You act so fucking innocent, like you’re some kind of Girl Scout, but you got it all figured out. Think you got all us guys twisted around your little pinkie. Well, I ain
’t fooled. You’re here to tempt us.” Spittle flecked my cheek. “Well, you know what? You succeeded.”

  It was the stringy-haired man who’d wanted more cocoa. He was straddling my chest, pinning my arms under the tarpaulin with his knees. His hands were clamped over my mouth and nose, suffocating me. Someone else was on my legs. It was all very silent and methodical—the rest of the deck beyond my low curtain was fast asleep. Almost as soon as I knew what was happening I began to fade, losing myself in a throbbing red buzz.

  “Stop struggling or you die,” he hissed in my ear. “You hear me? Hold still.”

  “Bust that bitch, Adam” said the other from below, stripping off my panties. It was Mitch. “She’s playin’ you.”

  “Come on, you cunt. Give it up.”

  I disappeared for a second, then came back, fighting the deep willingness to do just as he was saying. Some part of me was grateful for the chance to go away for good. My body was a nest of agonies, but its troubles already seemed like someone else’s problem.

  All at once there was a commotion, and the weight was gone. I could taste blood—the inside of my lip was cut from being mashed into my teeth. Gulping air, I looked up to see the wizened black face of Mr. Banks leaning over me. “You okay, bebby?” he asked.

  “She okay, Pop?” asked Tyrell, kneeling close by. There were a lot of other alarmed, sleepy people clustered around, men and boys all talking at once and ogling me. Big Lemuel was in tears. It was like the scene of a fire.

  Afraid of them all, I nodded, eyes wide.

  “Psh, she’s going to be fine,” said the old man. “That’s the first time I’ve had occasion to thank the Lord for giving me a weak bladder. Hallelujah!” He was holding one of the big hammers that had been standard equipment at the factory. There was a tuft of hair on it, beaded red.

  Getting my breath back, I noticed someone lying motionless beside me. It was the tattooed one named Adam. A second body, that of Mitch, was draped partly over my leg, and I could feel it moving. Trying to push it off, my hand encountered hot, slimy hair covered with nylon netting. Blood. I cried out, squirming away.

  “Tch-tch-tch! You’re safe. Hey.” Hands gently pressed my shoulders, trying to be reassuring. Mr. Banks said soothingly, “It’s all over now—you’re okay.”

  “Are they dead?” I choked.

  “Might be. Don’t you worry none about them. They were bad.”

  Wired, Tyrell said, “You clocked ’em good, Pop. Sorry-ass mothafuckas. We ain’t playin’, yo!”

  Breathless, I moaned, “No, you have to check! Check them fast, because—”

  With one swift motion Adam was on his feet in a feral crouch. His face was stained dark as wine, darker than the sky overhead, and eyes still blacker—glass marbles with centers yawning wide as collapsed stars, sucking everything in. His tongue lolled out, a glistening blue-gray slug tasting the air. Rapture—there was nothing else to call it. It was an obscene resurrection; he was born again.

  I hardly saw what happened next as I quailed beneath the monstrous thing, trying to shrink into the deck. Boxed in on three sides by walls of recoiling onlookers, the Ex-Adam took a leisurely survey of the situation, then seized Hairnet Boy’s living body by the collarbone as if it was a handle—Mitch awoke in agony—and lunged with him over the windscreen I had erected. It was just cardboard fastened to the safety cable. What appeared to be open space beyond was actually the port side of the boat. There was a skidding sound, then a splash as they both fell into the sea.

  We shined flashlights down after them, but there was no movement in the milky green water.

  “Boy had the devil in him,” said Mr. Banks.

  When the day of departure finally came, and everyone had to break camp, I was deeply depressed. I didn’t have the energy to deal with whatever plan they had for us or look ahead to the future, and I dreaded being cooped up with people who loathed me. On a purely aesthetic level, it was like moving from an airy patio to a windowless cellar. The lights and warmth would be nice, but if it weren’t for the weather turning bad, I could have stayed up there forever.

  In the aftermath of the incident, most people avoided my eyes as if I were Medusa. Even the ones who took an interest in my welfare wouldn’t look at me, but were suddenly fanatical about guarding me at night. There were a lot of fake-earnest expressions of sympathy, a stream of invitations to “just talk.” All this got on my nerves because I didn’t want them putting my trauma in a special category above their own—we were in this together. Others pretended nothing had happened, and I actually preferred this . . . except in the case of Cowper. It would have helped to talk to him.

  The line to go below was forming, a lot of hustle and bustle. I lagged back to have a last long look over the water. It was choppy, and wind-torn pennants of red, green, and gold colored the dawn sky. The boat glistened with frost. Above her silolike sail, the last stars were also taking their sweet time to go. How many people in the world were still around to see those stars? To feel what I felt?

  “Red sky at morning, sailor take warning,” someone said up front, and “Who’s got Dramamine?” I wiped my eyes and headed down.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We raised anchor and sailed for the open ocean the morning of Sunday, February 5. The rolling below decks told us a storm was brewing—a submarine’s famed ability to ride out gales is all about its ability to submerge. Since we were running on the surface, we had no such immunity. In fact, we were less stable than a surface ship would have been.

  The effect of this irony was a plague of seasickness in the missile room. There was no adequate provision for this, no way to hurl over the side, and only one available restroom for over four hundred people. It was like a painting by Brueghel in there. Five-gallon buckets were lashed down all over the compartment, and whenever they were full, someone had to pour them into the three toilets, a terrible job in a rocking ship. Everyone took turns doing it, but not everyone was as sure-footed as they might have been—I know I had a few spills of my own. Even with the air being constantly refreshed, it was impossible to escape the smell of vomit.

  Knock wood, I was one of the few who never got sick.

  Nobody knew where we were going, and the conscripted adults passing through the missile room did not stop to answer questions, so there was a certain envy when word came over the loudspeaker that I was to report to the command center.

  “Lucky you, getting a pass out of steerage,” Hector said, half mocking. He and the other guys could barely drag themselves from their cardboard igloo on the fourth level. “Make sure to tell them we appreciate the accommodations.”

  “And make ’em tell you what’s up with this secrecy shit,” Tyrell said. “Brotha got a right to know what kinda plans they makin’ for us. I ain’t doin’ no more tired-ass refugee-camp bullshit. Give me an island. We livin’ in a democracy—I say we vote on where we goin’, be kickin’ back in the Bahamas.”

  Doing a Jamaican-sounding falsetto, Jake sang, “Sail away to Block Island . . . leave all your troubles behind . . .” Then he retched.

  Pausing dramatically at the forward bulkhead, I intoned, “I shall return.”

  I still hadn’t seen or heard from Cowper since our first night on the water, six days before. I attributed this to the urgent demands put on him, as well as the need to avoid any appearance of favoritism—he couldn’t afford to lavish attention on any one person. The crew had their limited sphere, the passengers our own. Being granted the largest open space on board, we were expected to make the best of it, which meant not bothering anyone forward amidships. It was an unavoidable apartheid; there was simply not enough room to let so many people roam free. But I didn’t like it.

  The luckiest among us were the adults who were permitted to use the enlisted berthing on the missile room’s third level: nine bunks to a room, with doors that could be shut against the squalor. Everyone envied them.

  Arriving at main control, I was told by Kranuski to report to the commander on
the bridge. It reassured me to see that no one here seemed disturbed by the deck’s motion. It didn’t smell.

  “Come right fifteen degrees,” Kranuski said, and Robles replied, “Right fifteen, aye.” The men at the steering yokes casually complied. Most of the people in the room were men who had come from the factory, but it was hard to tell them apart from the official crew anymore. A number of them were wearing the same blue “poopie suits” as the one Cowper had given me.

  As I went up the hatch that had been such a dreadful source of terror before, I was grateful for this scene of quiet professionalism—only XO Kranuski so much as spared me a glance. “Just grab a harness and go all the way up,” he said.

  Climbing up through three dank chambers, I emerged into a tiny, pitching cockpit already full of Mr. Coombs. He had a bulky neck brace, and a big pair of binoculars slung from it. The wind was fierce.

  “Coming through, sir!” I shouted, disappointed at not finding Cowper. Coombs made room for me beside him while a burly man scanned the seas to my right—it was Albemarle. We were high above the waves, the sub’s blunt nose plowing them into ridges of whitewater that doused us with spray. It was also sleeting. The toy windshield, on which cryptic figures and notations had been scribbled in grease pencil, offered no protection.

  Turning stiffly toward me, Coombs shouted, “Why don’t you have a coat?”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know.”

  He made me drop back down and put on a hooded rain slicker and a life vest—thank goodness, because I was freezing cold. When I returned to the top, he clipped me to a safety cable, then handed me binoculars, and bellowed, “Tell me if you see anything!”