Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Read online

  A sickening feeling wrung my stomach. “But the ones who are working, who I nominate for training, they’ll get it, won’t they?”

  Coombs smiled sadly, resting his hand on my arm. “Honey, I wish I could.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After four days of slowly pounding along the surface, we finally submerged. The weather had slowly improved every day, and the sea was dead calm. I had learned from my furtive snooping that we were off Newfoundland, in the vicinity of a place called Hibernia, and that there was a lot of ice in the sea. It was the hazard posed by icebergs that prompted the dive, though with each passing day, the crew was also becoming noticeably paranoid about hostile ships.

  Although I knew about the maneuver (and shared the information with my small circle of confidants), I wasn’t prepared for when it would occur. As it turned out, it was the middle of the “night”—that is, the agreed-upon time when everyone in the Big Room was trying to sleep. It really was night outside, but we just as easily could have been somewhere on the planet where it was high noon—the clocks weren’t changed for different time zones. All that signified night on board was darkroom red lighting in some areas, which was more creepy than restful. It was never truly dark. The crew berths had curtains, but we in our ever-bright dungeon slept fitfully, like stranded holiday travelers at an airport.

  At least noise wasn’t a problem. Billions had been spent to muffle the vessel; its overriding design theme—a fugue, really—was stealth. Literally no two pieces of metal touched without the intercession of a rubber grommet, and the entire place was padded like an asylum. Every pipe and duct hung from a shock-absorbing strut, and the decks themselves floated on cushions within the hull. The net result of all this was that in the upper crawl spaces, it was possible to hear the slosh of the sea, and depending on where you went, you might hear muted office sounds of cooling, heating, plumbing, electronics, ventilation, the deeper hum of powerful forces hidden aft, and the occasional bell or loudspeaker, but generally it was the kind of noise that becomes subliminal. That was why the captain’s midnight announcement caught me by surprise.

  “All hands, we are at dive status. Commence dive.”

  An earsplitting alarm sounded, and everyone was awake at once.

  “The hell’s that?” Tyrell shouted.

  “Oh my God—what is it?” cried another voice.

  The worst possible sounds on a submarine—plunging wa terfalls and blasts of escaping air—drowned my voice, as I called, “We’re diving! We’re just diving!” My heart was fluttering like a panicky finch in a cage.

  There was a fearful sense of waves closing above us, of going down a well into a subterranean river. Long minutes passed while word of what was happening got around, then people just sat in anxious silence, eyes wide and turned upward like saints in religious paintings.

  Rather than a giddy headlong plummet to the depths, there was instead a strange settling sensation, as of things becoming very heavy and still.

  “Is it over?” I asked.

  Julian said, “Wait . . .”

  Torturous haunted-house sounds reverberated through the hull.

  “Still going down,” he said.

  “Oh my God.”

  “. . . just wait . . .”

  The awful noises began to die down. As quiet descended, there was a collective awakening, as if the last few days had been spent in the throes of some hellish delirium, addicts in withdrawal suddenly clean. People too seasick to drink or move, and who had become dangerously dehydrated, were standing up in wonder like pilgrims to Lourdes. The floor was steady. We looked around at each other with growing euphoria: Whatever it was we had been riding, it wasn’t a submarine. This was a submarine!

  Coombs came on the loudspeaker:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now at our cruising depth of three hundred feet. I apologize for any turbulence you may have experienced. In case you’re wondering, we have submerged because of sea ice around the island of Newfoundland. The easternmost Canadian city of St. John’s is just fourteen miles off our port bow, and it appears to be inhabited; that is, we observed lights in that direction just before diving. I’d like all civilian passengers to know that I have been well apprised of your difficult situation, and what I’d like to do is offer anyone who’s interested the chance to go ashore.”

  The crowd thrilled to this bombshell. Some even began sobbing.

  “There’s a good chance that this part of Canada has not been heavily affected by Agent X—it’s an island, it’s remote, it’s very cold, and there won’t have been a lot of refugees by sea because the port is iced in. They may be amenable to a few guests. I should tell you that for security reasons, we will be surfacing under cover of darkness less than two hours from now and won’t stay long. We don’t know how Canadian defense forces will react to having a nuclear sub on their doorstep, but I don’t intend to find out. Since none of you is really prepared for the weather, those going ashore may take the Navy blankets they’ve been issued—these should be sufficient to keep the wind off until you get to shelter. Anyone disembarking without parent or guardian must notify the Youth Liaison Officer so she can assign you a number. This number will determine the order in which you exit the hatch, so remember it.”

  Boys fell clamoring upon me. I had to make up a roster on the spot, unprepared.

  Finally, Coombs said, “For those of you who may choose to remain aboard, I can’t promise you anything. With fewer people, the food may stretch a little longer, but it will still be carefully rationed. I can’t tell you our destination, but I can tell you it may not be as inviting as this. For that reason, I leave the decision to you. That’s all.”

  It seemed that everyone wanted out. In twenty minutes I had assigned numbers to over three hundred boys—three-quarters of the boy population. Many of them had been sick the whole time and were so eager to go they were gibbering with delight. Their excitement smothered whatever doubts others may have had, making us feel like fools for hesitating.

  Signing up Tyrell, I joked, “Oh no! But it was just getting fun!”

  “Yeah, we gonna miss out on drawin’ straws for who gets to be stew. Damn!”

  The elder Banks, standing beside his son, asked, “You will be coming with us, won’t you?” I was touched by his worried look. He said, “You must, of course.”

  “I don’t know . . . it’s different for me,” I said.

  “Come with us,” he persisted. “Please. This is a ship of death—it’s no place for children.”

  “I’m thinking about it. I have to think about it.” Wilting before the old man’s pleading intensity, I said thickly, “I promise.”

  Tyrell lost me in some kind of soul-brother handshake, and said, “Stay bad, yo. And watch out for that Hector.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, laughing.

  “No shit.” As they walked away, he called out, “Don’t act surprised when he want to get all freaky, yo.” He said this in his usual jocular way, a final bit of shtick. It was more like one of the off-the-wall things Jake would say, but I was too busy to think about it.

  After the heaviest of the rush was over, Hector came up to me. I had grown so used to the sight of that costume, it hardly seemed odd anymore. He was trying to act cheerful, but his expression was something propped up by toothpicks. “Are you going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “At first I wanted to, just because I couldn’t stand being cooped up with all these guys, but now . . .” I held up the list of names. “Anyway, I can’t really leave without Mr. Cowper.”

  “I hear you.” He was all jittery.

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. I mean, when I heard it, I was psyched to go, ’cause that was kind of the whole point, right? I mean it’s kind of stupid not to. But my stepdad just told me he’s staying on because the boat needs crew, and now Julian’s staying . . . a bunch of the guys you picked for apprenticeships are staying, too. Robles and a couple of
other officers are going around quietly talking it up. It’s weird—I thought they couldn’t wait to get rid of us.” He looked at me forlornly. “I guess I kind of hoped you were getting off . . . so I’d have a reason to.”

  I could feel my skin flush. I didn’t know he felt that way about me—certainly no boy ever had before. It pained me to have to shoot him down.

  “Hector, I really want to? But as long as Mr. Cowper is on this boat, I can’t just leave. If I thought Coombs would cut him loose, I’d go in a second, but you know that’s not going to happen.” Seeing his distress, I said gently, “You should just go ashore if you want to.”

  “No,” he said, withdrawing. “With these assholes? Nah, I’ll stick around.”

  “But why should you, just because—”

  “No, it’s cool, Lulu, really. I’ll catch you later.” He disappeared into the crowd.

  In the control room, it was like an unusually attentive field trip: Every seat was taken, and two or three boys watched over the shoulder of each crew member. There had to be fifty people in there. Except for Tyrell, all the guys I’d gone corpse-gathering with were present, not surprising since it was mostly their relatives at the stations. Hector pointedly ignored me from over by the trim-and-drain panel. The room was darker than usual, its glowing buttons and displays vivid as a Christmas tree, and there was a sense of great anticipation. I gave my list to Coombs, then dallied, listening to Kranuski lecture everyone on the fine points of surfacing under ice:

  “—the Fathometer is your best buddy here, but as the ceiling gets low, you also need to watch it closely on this monitor. It’s not only to avoid a collision, but to find a lead, or polynya, between the ice sheets. Once you find one, you want to position the boat under it, come to a full stop, and do a periscope sighting. Be very careful with this, because a chunk of ice you can barely see will still kill a periscope, then you’re screwed. After establishing there are no hazards above, make sure all masts are retracted, orient the sailplanes for vertical ascent, and come up dead slow through the opening. Takes a little practice getting the trim right. It’s a matter of using the boat’s buoyancy to just delicately nudge the floes apart. The fairwater is actually hardened to withstand a forced ascent through solid ice, but that’s like busting a girl’s cherry—it’s kind of violent, and you don’t want to get hooked on it. Better just to rise up slowly underneath, push them apart like a gentle lover, and then slide in between—” The captain managed to alert him to the fact that I was present, and without missing a beat Kranuski said, “—with utmost courtesy and respect. Someone give the lady a chair.”

  Jake’s heavy-bearded uncle, Henry Bartholomew, stood up from the pri-mate console and insisted I take his seat; I only did so because I felt too awkward to say no. I didn’t hear much of what happened for a while—I was too busy wishing I was invisible—but then things became tense in the room, and I noticed that we were actually doing what Kranuski had described. There was a lot of strained back-and-forth maneuvering that reminded me of my first attempt at parallel-parking, then a slow countdown as we ascended: “One-nine-zero feet . . . one-eight-zero feet . . . one-seven-zero feet . . .”

  It seemed to go on forever, but at about eighty feet, Robles said, “Scope’s breaking surface,” and the boat stopped. He walked the periscope around in a fast circle, then stood in place studying something. “No threatening activity,” he said. “I’ve got the waterfront less than a thousand yards to port. Looks snowed in. There are functional streetlights, but no other signs of life that I can see. The buildings are dark.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” said Coombs, having a look. “It’s sleepy time, and they’re probably on power restrictions. But those streetlights are good—they’ll make us harder to see from shore. Secure the periscope, we’re going up.”

  Then the countdown began again. Vic Noteiro stood at the ballast controls, saying, “. . . thirty-five feet . . . thirty feet . . . twenty-five feet . . . twenty feet . . . fifteen feet . . . ten feet . . . five feet . . . sail’s clear . . .”

  The boys started applauding and giving high fives until a loud, grinding bump sounded from above. Everyone ducked instinctively.

  “Don’t forget,” Kranuski explained, “just because the sail comes up in a hole doesn’t mean the rest of the deck will. We picked up a little ice, that’s all. Nothing to get your panties in a twist about.” He was smirking at me as he said this.

  Commander Coombs took a look around with the periscope, and said, “Flight deck looks clear enough. Rich, is Mr. Webb standing by in a dry suit to assist in off-loading passengers? Good.” He skimmed my list. “They’ll be playing hopscotch until they get to the shelf, but the floes are packed pretty tight—I don’t think a raft will help them much. Just make sure they have a life preserver and some rope in case anyone slips.”

  On the PA system, he announced, “Anyone intending to disembark, form a single-file line under the center logistics hatch, beginning with numbers one through twenty. Twenty-one through forty should be ready to immediately follow. Depending on circumstances, we may close the hatch and dive at any time, so your best chance of going is to be ready when your number is called. Anyone crowding or cutting in line will be sent to the back.”

  Hanging up the mike, he looked at me, and said, “Louise, I’ll need your vocabulary on the bridge—supervise the operation and report anything out of the ordinary. Be alert! Danger can come from anywhere, anytime. Mr. Robles will see to it that you are properly outfitted to stand watch, but he’s not there to babysit; I need him for that here. Once you’re on station, you’re on your own.”

  I was stunned. “Why me?” I asked.

  “Because I can’t spare anyone else, and I think you can handle it. You do have a history of saving the boat. Now go with Dan—he’ll show you what to do.”

  Report anything out of the ordinary? As I returned to the little perch atop the sail, I suspected that order might be a bit broad.

  The view was something out of Salvador Dali: a queasily elastic mosaic of broken shards, white on black, with the submarine rising from it like a cairn. Land was close by, the tiled sea cutting inland between high wooded hills, forming a harbor. Behind me, the warping chessboard stretched to infinity. With the night sky looming so large, I felt like I was on the surface of Pluto, except that the face of the nearest hill was covered with buildings and lights—a friendly yellow constellation in dreamspace.

  “I’m here,” I said, fumbling the receiver. The gloves I’d been given were huge, as were the mukluks and the hooded parka, which for me was like wearing a teepee. There were also supposed to be stiff, insulated pants, but they had been like putting on a zeppelin—Robles settled for neoprene wet-suit pants under my poopie suit. I felt like Nanook of the North. “Uh, the city is just to the left, to port, and there are definitely lights showing. Mostly streetlights, from what I can see.” They already know that, you idiot.

  “Any movement?” someone quacked.

  “No, but it’s hard to tell—it’s kind of far away. Hold on.” I kicked myself, remembering the monster binoculars around my neck: Stupid. Hurriedly adjusting the focus, I scanned the waterfront. Immediately, snowbound streets and whipped-cream-mounded rooftops sprang into view, quaint in a closed-for-the-season kind of way. A number of ships and smaller boats were frozen at dockside and all but buried under scalloped white dunes. The haloed streetlamps offered snapshots of winter desolation. “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s quarter to three in the morning—I guess they could all be in bed.”

  Men and boys began emerging from the second hatch, midway down the boat. I couldn’t see them well from my position at the front of the sail but could hear them complaining about the cold, as anyone in their right mind would at minus twelve degrees. I know my bare face was stinging. As inadequately dressed as they were, I wondered if they would really go through with it and tempt that forbidding ice field, pieces of which were strewn on deck like thick marble slabs. Nearer to shore, the ice w
as fused into a solid jumbled mass, but to get there everybody would first have to negotiate open water on these stepping-stones. It seemed impossible.

  Perhaps it was less so from their perspective, or Mr. Webb’s powers of persuasion convinced them, because before long I could see a tethered line of people stretching like a tentative feeler out over the floes.

  “They’re actually going,” I reported. “This is crazy.”

  They were wearing capes and weird bulky armor made from packing materials—cardboard conquistadors groping for a frozen Cibola. I held my breath as they advanced, but the footing appeared to be surprisingly stable, the big plates hardly budging as guys stepped from one to the next or bridged wider gaps with wooden planks. Before long I let out my breath: This was nothing at all. It was a cakewalk.

  Suddenly I wished I was with them—God! They were getting away, and here I was a prisoner for heaven knew how much longer. The yellow lights of St. John’s looked homey and warm—much more real than the nightmare I’d been living. The force of my yearning overwhelmed me: the thought of rugs and sofas and soft beds; windows and wooden doors. Walking outside. Most of all I yearned for the sight of other women.

  The human chain became longer and longer, snaking around difficult places, occasionally backtracking, until it connected at last with the thick crust inshore.

  “They made it!” I cried. “They made it!”

  A line was made fast, connecting the submarine to the ice shelf, and people were stationed at all the crossings to give a hand. As the trek became more ordered, the pace quickened. Everyone began to move more confidently, less like they were feeling their way across a minefield than like revelers on a Volksmarch. I shook my head in wonder and envy to see the last of them close the distance.

  Meanwhile, the first ones on the wharf were beating a path inland through deep snow. Their movements seemed rushed—I got the impression they were freezing. By the time the last of the helpers trickled ashore, most of the crowd had already disappeared from view. I had glimpses of them between wharf buildings, wallowing through snowdrifts as if on the trail of something, and waited for the flare that would tell us they were safe.