Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Read online

  “Try me. We ain’t exactly networking down here—Kranuski and that bastid Webb have made sure that nobody tells us a damn thing. Of course there’s some things they can’t hide, like when the boat dives or surfaces. What was all that noise when we came up? Ice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “St. John’s, Newfoundland.” Shame welled up out of me in the form of burning tears. “A bunch of people got off there—over three hundred.”

  “What’s the matter? Were they forced?”

  “No, they wanted to go. Coombs gave us the choice.” I could hardly speak.

  “Lulu, what happened?”

  Taking a shuddering breath, I said stonily, “There was shooting . . . so we left them there. We just left them there to die.”

  In the background I could hear Sandoval saying, “I told you! Deadwood, I said! All that son of a bitch can think of is how he’s going to prune the deadwood. I’ll be damned.”

  “That’s fine, coming from you,” Cowper told him. “He just finished what you started.”

  Sandoval acted stung: “That’s not fair. That’s an unfair assessment. I may have been guilty of overoptimism and misled those people into thinking the Navy would follow through, but that’s the extent of it. My hand was forced.”

  “Yeah, and if I hadn’t have led them folks down to the slip, you’d have just sailed away without us. Just sailed away, and you and Coombs would be best buddies.”

  “Ah, but we’re not, are we? He’s upstairs and I’m down here. That should tell you something. ‘Best buddies.’ Ask her if before he gave those kids the ‘choice’ to go ashore, Coombs informed them that in January we bombarded Canada with EMPs to hobble them until Agent X could spread there. That we crippled their communications infrastructure so no one would know how weak we were. Ask her if they knew that before they went.”

  “No,” I said, shocked.

  “‘Best buddies,’” Sandoval scoffed again, deeply offended. “That’ll be the day.”

  “Is that true?” I asked.

  “Ah, shit.” Furious at Sandoval, Cowper replied, “I’m sorry, honey. He shouldn’t have told you that.”

  I flew off the handle: “Why not? To protect me? Is that it? For my own good? Keeping secrets from people doesn’t make them safe—Daddy.”

  “I guess not.” He sighed. “I haven’t always told you what’s in my heart, Lulu, but you have to know it’s all for you.” With grim intensity, he insisted, “Ask any of the old-timers, and they’ll tell you. Now I’m tired, so you’ll have to excuse me. Go, g’bye! Get the hell outta here before someone catches you.” Even as he said this, he was shuffling away.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We crossed the Arctic Circle on the twentieth of February, in an area of the sea between Baffin Island and Greenland called the Davis Strait, inadvertently following Amundsen’s route of a century before. At some point, the ice closed tight above us, ending surface sightings. There was a high-powered light on the sail, however, which allowed the periscope to function as an underwater camera. The video could be shown on any monitor in the sub, but Coombs had found a way to improve on this: While taking inventory of the remaining artifacts in the Big Room, Robles had turned up a number of eighty-inch high-definition flat plasma displays. These were intended for supercomputer simulations (the computer itself—an experimental Cray—was still in the box), but Coombs didn’t think there would be any harm in setting a few up around the control room and linking them to the periscope. The first time they were turned on, they elicited gasps. These were not just pictures on TV; they were vivid undersea windows, on which we could watch the milky jade icescape passing above, and every glowing mite streaming by. It made some of the guys claustrophobic, but for me in my ignorance it was too abstract to be really scary, just amazing.

  As we followed the converging lines of longitude to the top of the world, gossip and speculation ran rampant: What was our objective? The unofficial consensus seemed to be that we were heading for Alaska via the Arctic Ocean, and this quickly became such an accepted matter of common knowledge (or wishful thinking) that people spoke of it openly, as in, “When we get to Alaska—” or “I can’t wait till we get to Alaska so I can—” The minute this reached the ears of Coombs, he took me aside, and said, “You know what the ‘butt’ on a ship is?”

  “The stern?”

  “No. On old sailing ships they called the drinking-water cask the ‘butt.’ It was kind of like the watercooler—sailors would stand around it and gossip, just like people in offices do today. Used to do, I mean. Understand?”

  I nodded sagely.

  He said, “Sometimes the talk would be out of order, even mutinous. The kind of thing that could lead to the scuttling of the ship. You know what they called that kind of talk?”

  “Scuttlebutt?”

  He deflated a little. “Yes, scuttlebutt. Maybe you also know the expression, ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships.’ You let those kids know I won’t have it. Not in my control room, not anywhere. Our destination is classified, and it’ll remain classified until such time as I find it prudent to reveal it. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want to have to make an example of anyone.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  When I told Julian about the directive, he acted as though it confirmed his Alaska hypothesis.

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked.

  “Come on, it’s obvious. It’s America, it’s frozen solid, it’s geographically isolated, there’s a strong military presence, and we can use the Arctic Ocean as a shortcut. There’s even a huge Trident submarine base just south of there in Bangor, Washington. Do I have to go on?”

  “Have you heard anything about this from Robles?” I knew Julian was understudying for the quartermaster position presently filled by Robles.

  “Of course not, but he’s got us learning the sextant, the NAVSAT, the loran, the radar, the Fathometer, the SINS, the gyrocompass, and the accelerometer—if I can’t estimate where we’re going, it’d be pretty sad.”

  “You said it, not me.” I nudged him playfully, but he wouldn’t crack a smile. For some reason it had become imperative for me to get him to smile, but he just wouldn’t do it.

  Julian Noteiro was interesting, an unusual combination of strength, intelligence, character, and good looks. I had never liked people who were too competent because they made me feel inadequate, yet Julian was not stuck-up. You couldn’t call him humble, but he was not self-obsessed. Order was his way of coping. Having come from a troubled working-class family with alcohol issues, anything irrational galled him, and in this need for control I saw something of myself. Perhaps I felt that if he would smile, it would mean I could, too.

  Ignoring my nudge, he said, “You’ll know I’m right when we make a ninety-degree course change into Lancaster Sound. Wait and see.”

  Cowper had another opinion.

  “Alaska, you say?” he asked from behind the door.

  “That’s the scuttlebutt.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Not west of Greenland. Our approach would have to be up the eastern side, where there’s some depth to work with.”

  “Wouldn’t that take longer, though?”

  “Sure, but you’re not gonna save time if you get hung up in the shallows. That ice is gonna be thick as a bastid this time a year, and this beast needs a lot of elbow room, especially at these latitudes. The nearer you get to magnetic north, the harder it is to navigate.” He conferred with Sandoval out of earshot. After a moment he said, “Sandoval thinks Alaska is impossible. He says the last he heard there was a war going on there between coastal defenses and an armada of refugee ships. Food supplies from the lower forty-eight had been cut off, so you had starvation, you had cold, you had panic—”

  “Not to mention Xombies,” I said.

  “Sure. Anchorage is a big city—had to be pretty bad. Doesn’t sound like much of a haven. Not t
o mention there’s a good chance the Russians may have mined the approaches to the Arctic Ocean. I know we did—while I was in command, I found active mine coordinates in the safe. Coombs knows that.”

  “Then what’s he up to?”

  “Give us a while to think on it. And Lulu?”

  “Yes?”

  “Neither one of us is doing too well in here, but me with my ticker . . . you never can tell. And if I go, he’s gonna go right after, if you know what I mean. Just in case, I wanted to tell you again what’s in my heart. You still got that baby picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, look at it when I’m gone. Don’t think badly of me—it’s what’s in my heart that counts.”

  I wanted to reply, Easy for you to say, but I held my tongue—this was obviously important to him. Frustrated as I felt, I couldn’t hurt his feelings, and the thought that he might die—after everything we’d survived so far—it was unthinkable. He was all I had.

  There was a hush in the control room, making me feel even more conspicuous than usual as I found a place to sit. On-screen I could see an immense black object suspended in pale ice, like a seedpod in dirty cotton. It was fat at the sides and ridged down the center, narrowing to a wedge just above us. It looked ready to split along that seam and spill its contents on our heads.

  “What’s that?” I whispered.

  “It’s a ship,” Julian said impatiently. “The hull of an ocean liner, trapped in the ice. She’s about nine hundred feet long.”

  Kranuski was speaking to Coombs: “She’s not doing too well, sir. About a ten-degree list to port, heavy at the bow. You can see where the ice is staving her in—there’s a flooded compartment in there.”

  “So she’s sinking?” Albemarle asked, listening in. “Why the hell are we underneath her?”

  Ignoring the civilian, Kranuski went on, “We’re not picking up any sounds, so the flooding must have stopped for now. They build these babies with a lot of redundancy—she can survive a few flooded baffles. But you never know. If we’re going to have a look at her topside, we better do it quick.”

  Coombs asked, “Is that your recommendation?”

  “Yes, sir. We can’t afford to pass up any potential windfall, and this is a big one.”

  “What about you, Mr. Robles?”

  Without taking his heavy-lidded eyes off the screen, Robles said, “Why not?”

  We made a wide circle around the stranded liner, searching for openings, and almost immediately lucked into what we were looking for: a thinly frozen-over polynya winding like a river through the ice. It was miles long, and we had actually already crossed beneath it several times that morning. We deliberately followed it as near to the ship as possible—about fourteen hundred yards west—and surfaced well clear of any floes. The sun was dim and low in the sky, but at least it was daylight. Topside relays were organized so everyone could get a taste of the outdoors, but most didn’t use their allotted five minutes. It was too cold.

  The captain accompanied me up to the bridge, and from there I had a good view of the slushy lead and high banks of ice that just went on and on. But there was one peculiar feature in the emptiness, a tall white shape like a wedding cake.

  Coombs was letting me report. “The ship is directly ahead. It’s definitely a cruise ship. It doesn’t look damaged, but . . . I can’t see any signs of life. No fire or smoke, or movement of any kind.”

  “What about lifeboats?” Coombs prompted me.

  “Most of the lifeboats are gone—on this side anyway. Looks like they must have abandoned ship.”

  “Exactly,” Coombs said. “So you want to take a walk out there?”

  “Yeah right,” I said, shocked to think he was being funny.

  “We’re organizing a boarding party. We’re well beyond the survivability threshold, and that ship is stone cold. I’m asking if you’d like to go along.”

  Alarm bells went off in my head. “Um . . . I’m fine here.”

  “Your reluctance wouldn’t have anything to do with St. John’s, would it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What if I were to tell you I need you out there to get medicine for someone? Someone you know, who might die without it?”

  “Mr. Cowper.”

  “What do you say?”

  I looked off at that lonely white spire, trapped like a bug in amber. “Who else is going?”

  “Well, we can’t afford to spare any Navy personnel, but your Mr. Monte has agreed to go, as well as Mr. Noteiro, Mr. DeLuca, and Mr. Albemarle. These men are essential to the boat, so I don’t send them lightly. I’ll also expect you to assemble a team of thirty of your brightest volunteers. You’ll be responsible for them on the ice, so make sure they can handle the hike.”

  “Commander Coombs, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I have your word as an officer and a gentleman that you won’t leave us out there?”

  There was a long, tense pause, then a sigh. “Miss Pangloss, I cannot give you that assurance.”

  I blinked, dumbfounded.

  He went on, “But let me say this: In the absence of any perceived threat to this vessel, I will not submerge. Is that good enough?”

  “Based on whose perception, though?”

  “I’m not going to bargain with you about what constitutes a threat. Any radar contact, any sonar contact, anything odd whatsoever, and we dive. That’s the mission.”

  “But not just to get rid of us?”

  “Now you’re hurting my feelings.”

  In the time it took to gather and outfit the boarding party, the sun fell below the horizon, leaving only a greenish glow.

  “This is all the daylight you’re gonna see,” Albemarle said, giving us a final once-over as we lined up on deck. “Let’s not waste it.”

  We were all wearing the same winter gear I’d become accustomed to, and I helped a few people snug their fastenings.

  “I know how to do it,” Hector said irritably.

  “Shut your trap,” his stepfather, Albemarle, told him. “Let the little girl show ya how before you freeze your ass off.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered to Hector, cinching in his hood. He ignored me, staring straight ahead.

  “Aww, look what a good boy he’s being,” Jake said. “Give mamma a kiss.”

  “Oh be quiet,” I said, blushing.

  We left the submarine. Her hull had drifted up against the ice shelf, and it was a small matter to lay a plank across and simply walk down. The crunchy surface was as stable as solid ground and less slippery than the deck. Those thirty boys could hardly contain themselves, being away from the sub for the first time in weeks—it was like a snow day. Cole had finally gotten over his shock, and Julian was actually smiling. They had no inkling of the anxieties of myself and the men, waiting to see if Coombs would ditch us here. Why had we all agreed to this? Guilt, maybe. In short order we were trooping toward the ship.

  The ship.

  It was a floating luxury hotel—an unearthly resort planted in the middle of nowhere, with vertical tiers of balconies and fanciful space-age architecture. Her winged funnel was swept back, a sleeker, flimsier version of our fairwater, and the curving banks of windows at her bridge were like wraparound sunglasses on a friendly shark. I could make out her name through a layer of frost: Northern Queen. She looked very top-heavy. Coombs had said she could carry over three thousand people.

  “Let’s just hope it really is an abandoned ship,” said Noteiro, short of breath.

  “Yeah,” agreed Monte.

  “But I don’t know. Wouldn’t they have taken all the boats, then? Why’d they leave that big motor launch? It all looks rushed and half-assed to me. Look how the lines are crossed.”

  “Obviously they were in a hurry,” said Albemarle.

  “Or maybe they went day-sailing,” DeLuca said, irritated at the empty speculation. “What the hell good does it do to talk about it?”

  “Gus is right. We should all be focusing on th
e really important things, like finding him a smoke.”

  “Damn straight.”

  As we neared the thing, we began to appreciate the amount of snow and ice on it. I had assumed the ship was simply painted white, but it could have been any color beneath the thick, knobby glaze that coated everything. Ice festooned the railings like grotesque roots, and lines that had lowered lifeboats were stiff with congealed drippings—it reminded me of the weird formations my mother and I had seen at Carlsbad Caverns. That ship could have been here forever, encased in its mantle of solitude. I kept glancing back to make sure I could still see the sub.

  “Jesus! It’s a wonder she ain’t capsized, carrying all that extra tonnage.”

  “We shouldn’t get any closer if there’s a chance she’ll flip.”

  DeLuca erupted. “Will you guys shut up? Can’t you see she’s been here for ages? She’s solid as a damn rock. Let’s do what we came here to do and have a little less fantasyland, can we please?”

  We crossed beneath the anchors and the long-snouted bow to the vessel’s port side. There most of the lifeboats were in place, and only a few ropes plumbed the surface like candle-wicks. It wasn’t easy to approach the hull because of buckled and refrozen ice, but there was a gangway, a covered stair that climbed the sheer wall of the ship to a large, open doorway.

  “Well, that’s convenient,” said DeLuca.

  Noteiro said, “Them stairs been down awhile.”

  “Shouldn’t we try to hail her again?” Albemarle said.

  “If they couldn’t hear the boat’s whistle, they’ll never hear us.”

  “They might.” He pulled a megaphone out of a bag, and said, “ATTENTION CRUISE SHIP. ATTENTION CRUISE SHIP. IS THERE ANYONE ABOARD? REPEAT: IS THERE ANYONE ABOARD?” We waited, straining for any sound, but there was no reply. Albemarle said, “Try firing a couple of rounds in the air.”

  DeLuca shrugged the shotgun off his shoulder, aimed it out at the void, and squeezed off a shot. The bang rippled away skittishly to the horizon. Pumping the smoking shell out, he said, “Waste of good ammunition, you ask me.”