Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Page 7

  “It’s gonna hit the screw, it’s gonna hit the screw,” someone jibbered.

  The Sallie dropped.

  It went loudly, each of its nine rows of wheels slamming first against the concrete ledge, then against the lower wooden pier—BABAMBABAMBABAMBABAM! As it jounced downward, it must have just cleared the giant propeller, because the ringing, fatal blow we were all holding our breaths for never came. What did happen was scary enough: A mound of water engulfed the stern, carrying away Exes but also rows of men. Some of them escaped the propeller and were left bobbing in our wake. We could hear them calling in the dark.

  Not many of us had the energy to be mortified. I couldn’t see if Cowper was still aboard or not, and for the moment I didn’t want to know. A few hysterical kids were being restrained. I understood: At that instant my biggest fear was that someone might include me in their compassion, might slow our flight. I would’ve gladly killed someone like that, even though we were safely out of reach of the Ex mass.

  But there was nothing to worry about. The boat didn’t stop.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was very cold and windy out on the open water; the only shelter we had was each other. Grief sounds threaded the night. A lot of people had to go to the bathroom, but unlike the others I couldn’t just pee over the side. Albemarle, Cowper, and the rest of the adults came forward to see what could be done, which wasn’t much. There was no one from the sub’s crew to appeal to, except maybe hidden atop the conning tower, and they wouldn’t answer our shouts. The searchlight had been turned off. When Cowper’s uniform went by in the dark I grabbed a sleeve.

  “Not now, honey, okay?” he said, pulling away. “Sit tight.”

  Bereft, watching the dark shore recede, my initial flush of gratitude quickly passed, and I began to get anxious. How long did the crew expect us to stay out here? A rough head-count was organized: There were about four hundred people on deck, less than fifty of them adults. At least half the older men we’d started out with were gone. Boys were the great majority, mostly teenagers like me (well, not exactly like me—these were more the suburban-gangsta crowd), who seemed to have the same casual expertise about the sub that other kids had about Nintendo. Sea urchins. Listening to them, I quickly learned that the sub was the boat, the conning tower was called the fairwater or sail, and the leathery black deck was a steel beach. They had prepared for this nuclear orphanage. But obviously something had gone wrong . . . and I, the only female, was to blame.

  “This is bullshit, man,” said the hairnet guy. Turning on me once more, he groused, “This is all your fault. If you hadn’t of come, things would be different. You’re bad luck.”

  Vision swimming with pathetic tears, I said, “What is your problem, kid? I’m serious. Are you off your medication or something? Because even the dumbest knuckle-dragging moron would see that this is not an appropriate time or place to be pulling this bullshit.”

  “Oh, you really auditioning to be my bitch now.”

  A voice over my shoulder said, “Shut up, Mitch.” It was the boy in the chipmunk costume. He was a head taller than the other, but somewhat less menacing: Sesame Street versus Crenshaw. Squeezing between me and the homeboy, he added, “Give it a rest, man. She’s been through enough.”

  “What you say?” Mitch exploded, shoving his furry shoulder. “Huh? You got somethin’ to say, you clown? Pussy? Oh, she been through enough, is that it? Fuck you! You wanna do somethin’ about it? What you gonna do?” The costumed boy didn’t react but just watched the other with tired patience. “That’s what I thought,” Mitch said at last, spitting at his feet and pushing past us into the crowd.

  After a moment the bigger boy said softly, “He lost his whole family, I mean we all have, so you know . . .”

  I nodded in perfect understanding. After a short interlude, I asked, “What’s with the chipmunk costume?”

  “I’m not a chipmunk. I’m Safety Squirrel.”

  “Aren’t squirrels supposed to have a big fluffy tail?”

  “It got caught in the machinery. That’s the tragedy of Safety Squirrel.”

  Gruff sounds of an argument broke out under the tower. Men were shouting, “Throw the son of a bitch overboard!” and a raw voice beseeched, “SPAM, I’m SPAM—ask Coombs!” Making my way forward, I practically tripped over a man sitting on the deck. He was the bald guy—Sandoval—who had jumped across from the Sallie. He looked stunned and was hugging his right knee as if in pain. The other men loomed all around.

  “Quiet, Lulu,” Cowper said brusquely when I found him. To the injured man, he said, “We’ve had to fight for what we were promised. A lot of men I’ve known for years were lost. Since you’re the one who made the promises, Jim, you’re kind of in a spot.”

  Gravel-voiced, the other replied, “I didn’t have any choice, Fred. Jesus, I’m glad to see you.”

  “I bet you are. We’re all happy as clams to see you, too.”

  “Now just hold on. It wasn’t up to me. When I made that offer to all of you, I didn’t think there was anybody left in Washington who would bother about a decommissioned, neutered boat. STRATCOM had her birds in Kings Bay—they weren’t interested anymore. I figured she was a big fat windfall for us. Can you blame me? With communications all down, and the crazy talk out of Cutler: We were bombing Canada, or it was the Rapture—crap like that? I never heard back from Group Ten, much less the Nuclear Posture Review, so we decided to reactivate her as SSGN on Coombs’s authority. Don’t laugh—he was the most senior person we had. We never got any acknowledgment from COMSUBLANT. Then all of a sudden a tender shows up carrying promotions and sealed orders for all the NavSea people—”

  “Not to mention SPAM,” Albemarle snapped.

  “Right, SPAM. Tons of SPAM. I was as disappointed as anybody. Suddenly SPAM took precedence over everything else. In the absence of any other orders, Coombs might have been willing to entertain the thought of an employee sealift, but after that it was his sworn duty to execute this SPAM operation. I lost my vote.”

  “But you run the company,” said Cowper. “You’re a civilian contractor, not his subordinate. You’re the chairman, for God’s sake, the CEO. You could’ve stood up to him, and Reynolds would’ve backed you.”

  “You think so? And be a traitor to his country? Maybe. I didn’t see it that way, Fred. It’s been my experience that some ex-Navy guys are pretty patriotic.”

  This was the wrong thing to say. Albemarle jumped in. “We’re plenty patriotic, you asshole. This is about saving Americans. I notice you were pretty quick to save your own ass back there.”

  “That’s because I’m Sensitive.”

  “You weren’t too goddamned sensitive to let Bob Martino get blown away.”

  “No, I’m Sensitive Personnel. I’m SPAM—that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. That’s why I’m here. Otherwise, I would’ve shipped out with the rest of the board a week ago.”

  “Whattaya mean, you’re SPAM?” Cowper squawked.

  “I mean I have been designated essential to the mission—Coombs is required to deliver me at all costs.”

  “Deliver you where? Why?”

  “That I don’t know. But it gives you guys a pretty sweet bargaining chip, doesn’t it?”

  “He’s lying,” said one of the other men threateningly. “He’s just trying to save his friggin’ neck.”

  “Give me a little credit, will you? I wouldn’t lie about something that you can verify so easily. Ask Admiral Coombs.”

  “Admiral Coombs,” Cowper scoffed. “That would be fine if he’d talk to us. The maneuvering watch won’t answer our hails.”

  Albemarle said, “He’s up there, and we’re down here. That’s the problem.”

  “Just because he won’t talk doesn’t mean he won’t listen, Ed.” Sandoval pointed to the top of the sail. “How about I let them know I’m here?”

  Cowper rubbed his chin, said, “Go ahead.”

  “Topside watch!” he shouted weakly. “This is fo
r Commander Coombs! Harvey, it’s James Sandoval, requesting to come aboard! I made it! Harvey! Admiral Coombs!”

  There was no reply. He tried several more times, straining harder with each effort, but the tower appeared to be deserted. Concerned muttering broke out among the bystanders.

  “I don’t think there’s anybody up there,” Sandoval said finally, discouraged.

  “How can there be nobody up there?” demanded Cowper. “We’re in the goddamn channel! Somebody’s gotta be piloting this thing!”

  Sandoval shrugged helplessly. “I know. I don’t understand it.”

  “Maybe they’re piloting by scope,” a boy offered.

  “And maybe we don’t need no cockeyed opinions from the peanut gallery,” Albemarle barked. To Cowper, he said, “Look, this bastard’s just stalling for time. He’ll say anything to keep us off him until Coombs gets things under control. SPAM my ass. For all we know—”

  He was cut off by a falling body that slammed him to the deck. Two more followed in quick succession, plunging into the sea.

  “Heads up!” Cowper shouted, pinning me flat against the tower. Other men followed suit, keeping the crowd back, but there didn’t seem to be any more jumpers, and after a moment everyone rushed in to help Albemarle and the fallen man.

  Albemarle was groggy, but the new man was wide-awake. He wore a dark blue jumpsuit with gold dolphins stitched over the left breast pocket. Over the right pocket was his name: COOMBS.

  “Xombies,” he gasped. “Xombies on board.”

  “They’re spreading down there like weasels, snatching men right and left,” the commander babbled. He was a trim, swarthy man with a hawk nose and short, dense hair like Velcro. “So fast, so fast, there’s no time to think. They suck the life out of you, you know that? Put their filthy mouth on yours and—” He shuddered violently. “Then you’re one of them.”

  “Easy there, Skipper,” said Cowper. “How much of the boat have they got? Where are they?”

  “Wardroom—must’ve started in the wardroom with the injured. Yeah, one of those Marines who cracked his head, had to be.” His eyes were glazed, feverish. “I’m on the bridge, and all hell breaks loose—Montoya’s screaming in the phone for armed support, the general alarm starts going off—I don’t know what the hell’s happening. I drop down to Control, and there’s nobody there! Kranuski’s on the com yelling to secure the forward bulkhead, and all of a sudden Stanaman comes running in from Operations like he can’t breathe, blue in the face, and just before he reaches me, Baker and Lee come flying across the console and take him down, wham! I thought they killed him, but he’s fighting back like a damn wildcat, and Lee yells, ‘Get out, Cap! Up top!’ Just as I’m thinking, Xombies! here come Tim Shaye and Cready after me like a couple of damn ghouls, and there’s nowhere to go but up. They’re right on my ass the whole way—I never climbed so fast in my life.” He glanced around in fear. “Where the hell’d they go?”

  “Into the drink.”

  “Thank Christ for that.” Coombs suddenly became alert, listening, and we all felt it, too: a queasy change in velocity. We were slowing down. It seemed to bring him to his senses. “Oh my Lord,” he said. “Cowper! I have to get down there!”

  Cowper just stood up in disgust. The dreadful news that Exes were in the sub swamped everything—after what we’d been through, it was the final cosmic straw, our great escape debunked. There was no weeping or wailing, just helpless incomprehension. Limbo. Then Albemarle started laughing. For a long moment, his lone cackle was a kite in the void.

  Finally, he said, “Join the club.”

  “How many men are down there?” Cowper asked.

  Coombs hesitated, and Sandoval said, “Forty-two. Just the NavSea team.”

  This caused a rustle of amazement—I gathered it was a shockingly low number. Later, I would learn that it was less than a third of the normal crew complement.

  “That’s privileged information,” Coombs retorted. He squinted in the dark, noticing Sandoval for the first time. Sandoval shook his head as if to say, Don’t ask.

  “And you couldn’t fit these kids in?” Cowper asked. “Jesus H. Christ.”

  Coombs began to reply, “Since when do I have to justify my orders—” but was interrupted by yelling from the stern. I could hear, “Stand clear, stand clear!” over a lot of nervous chatter. There was a heavy clunk.

  Coombs said, “Missile compartment hatch,” and began shoving his way through the crowd, followed by Cowper and others.

  Meanwhile, someone new was coming forward, demanding, “Who’s in charge up here? Where’s Fred Cowper?” The parties met in the middle, and the new man—an officious-looking crew-cut type—seemed relieved to find Coombs.

  “Commander! You’re safe! We thought everyone forward amidships was gone!” He raised a walkie-talkie, and said, “Found the CO unharmed, over.” The reply was a crackling garble.

  “What’s the status, Rich?” Coombs asked impatiently. He seemed embarrassed to be found.

  “Yes, sir—well, we secured the forward bulkhead, and it looks like everything aft of the CCSM is clear. I ordered all stop and station-keeping, and the men are rigging for auxiliary control right now. It’s a miracle we’re not aground, but that could change when the tide goes out. I don’t think anyone but Mr. Robles and I made it aft, and no one’s reporting from anywhere in the forward section now. No one made it out with you, did they?”

  “No.”

  The other man lowered his voice, ill at ease sharing this information with us. “Then that’s twelve officers missing,” he said.

  “All right,” said Coombs, nodding furiously. “Well, we have to get back in there. Assemble a team, and we’ll do an armed sweep.”

  “But that’s the problem, we—” He caught himself, eyeing us suspiciously as he amended, “I’ll talk to you below.”

  “Speak up, Lieutenant,” Coombs said with resignation. “You might as well forget OPSEC. We’re all in the same boat, so to speak.”

  “Okay then, we can’t spare the men. They’re spread too thin to run the boat and fight at the same time, and we sure as hell can’t afford to lose any more.”

  “I wish we had a choice.”

  Cowper stepped forward. “Don’t stand on ceremony, Mr. Kranuski,” he said, offering the man a handshake. It was ignored.

  “You dirty traitor,” Kranuski said softly, eyes burning with loathing. “I hope you’re happy.”

  “I’ll be happy when these kids are all below drinking bug juice. Until then, I’m just trying to survive, Rich. But there’s no reason our survival should be incompatible with your mission. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that at this point you need us as much as we need you.”

  “You’re a disgrace to that uniform.”

  Coombs stepped in. “That’s enough. We don’t have time for this. Fred, if you’re offering us extra hands, I accept. Assemble your best conners and have them meet us below. They’ll be reporting to Mr. Robles. The rest of you stay up top until you get the all clear. No shenanigans!”

  Down the hatch. I never gave a thought to that expression before. It was rather forbidding, that bright hole in the sea, like a volcanic vent. Suddenly, the cold deck wasn’t so bad. Others were feeling it, too: The eagerness I had seen in these boys back at the hangar seemed to have been cured by recent events—there was certainly no Alamo-like rush to volunteer.

  It was worked out that twenty of our guys would go: ten technical people and ten big boys running interference. This was thought to be the biggest number we could field without creating a logjam below. “You gotta have enough room to fight and still keep in sight of everyone else,” Cowper explained. The technical ones were all older men who had served aboard subs at one time or another—Cowper and Ed Albemarle among them—and they were quick to step forward. The boys were another matter, since the only ones who really wanted to go were relatives of the men who were going, and the men refused to bring these. The deadlock was broken when Cowper announc
ed he would take me, “just to shut everyone up.”

  “If we don’t pull this off,” he said, “we’re all goners anyhow.”

  People looked to see my reaction, but if the choice was to stick by Cowper or remain on deck as everybody’s scapegoat, I wasn’t about to complain. The arguments sputtered out, and a tenth boy was picked (presumably to make up for my inadequacy), bringing our total number to twenty-one. Blackjack.

  Peering down that rabbit hole, I think even the seasoned veterans must have had second thoughts. Not that it was dark or creepy—it was a glowing chimney, what they called the “escape trunk,” a cream-colored vestibule with a shiny ladder leading to a second hatch just below. And if you pulled open that inner hatch? All of us had seen enough by then to picture an unspeakably vivid Pandora’s box.

  “All the times I did this shooting studs, and all I was afraid of was a little inert gas,” said a bushy-bearded man, climbing down.

  “Argon’ll kill you just as fast as those things,” Albemarle replied. “Think of it that way.”

  “But they don’t kill you. That’s the problem.”

  I could no longer see past the ring of intent spectators banking the light like cavemen around a fire, but I could hear the lower hatch open. A second man went down. Then a third. The boat rocked gently, waves lapping at its sides. No one made a sound.

  Some of the teenagers started to go down, and I was pleased to see the chipmunk boy among them. I should have known he’d volunteer, I thought. Then it was Cowper’s turn, and I followed along on his heels, pushing through the press of bodies. Someone gave me a shove, so that I barely kept from falling, bowling into the legs of several adults. Albemarle turned with an expression of pained surprise—I had hit his injured back.