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Authors: Walter Greatshell

BOOK: Xombies: Apocalypso
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A hand grabbed hold of Sandoval’s window frame, making him jump. He whipped around to see a vision so awful that his mind couldn’t absorb it. The sight hit him like a physical blow, a rabbit punch that knocked all the air out of him.
The thing was an obscene caricature of a beautiful young woman, her perfect teeth gleaming Pepsodent white in a tautly grinning purple face, with a gaping crater in her skull through which the remaining brain matter was visible, undulating like a wrinkled scrotum. The living matter seemed to be reaching out of her head for him.
Before Sandoval had time to react to the shock, the woman seized the car with both hands and vaulted up like a circus rider mounting a galloping horse. He drew breath to shout,
Look out!
But before he could get the words out, two long legs slithered in through the broken window, and her whole naked body landed on his lap. He could see right through her heart.
Pandemonium broke out in the car.
Gus DeLuca spun the wheel, and suddenly there was a utility pole in the headlights. They were only moving at about 15 mph, but the car slammed hard, deploying its air bags, and everyone dove, screaming, out the doors. Sandoval tumbled to the ground with the woman wrapped around him, her nimble and ridiculously strong arms crushing his windpipe while her neck strained to force that crazed sucker-fish mouth over his. Her exposed brain licked his forehead like a sticky tongue.
Help me!
he tried to shout, head twisting wildly to avoid her questing mouth.
Somebody help!
He couldn’t reach the gun; his arms were clamped tight by her cold, naked thighs. Sandoval could feel himself blacking out.
Then by some miracle he was free, doubled over on his side and retching in pain. It was Gus DeLuca and Big Ed Albemarle: They had brained the thing with the heavy hammers they used in the factory—they were
still
braining it. It had no brains left to brain.
“X marks the spot,”
DeLuca crowed.
“Die … die … die … ” muttered Albemarle, his denim coveralls speckling with inky blood as they pounded the writhing thing into the ground.
Stepping back to rest his arm, Gus DeLuca said, “Ed, we gotta go.” The parade had moved on, and they were alone in the fog. The Cadillac was steaming from its crumpled hood, totaled.
“What about
him
?” He pointed to Sandoval.
An eruption of gunfire and screams rattled the gloom, then a rockslide of trampling feet that was the sound of mass panic. An amplified voice said, “HALT. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA.”
“Fuck him and the car he rode in on,” said DeLuca. “We gotta get down there.”
They left him.
In the distance, Sandoval could hear a chorus of voices begging to be let on the boat. He knew there wasn’t much chance of them ever getting past the Marines posted there. It was the end of the line for all of them, himself included.
He could picture the scene: the dockyard full of empty missile tubes, the dead hulk of the Sallie blocking the road, its driver shot dead in the front cab and terrified boys pouring off the crawler’s deck like panicked wildebeests entering a crocodile-infested river.
They were pinned down on the broad tarmac between the submarine’s gangway—the “brow”—and the terraced lawn that was the site of yesterday’s dockside picnic. Bob Martino’s blood would still be there in the grass for anyone who cared to look. The boat would still be there, too, though not for long, its speckled mast array looming in the dark as if suspended in midair. Beneath that, the railed gantry would fade into black nothingness, a bridge to nowhere.
How did those poor saps think they were going to escape when the man who owned the submarine factory could not? Did they imagine they could appeal to pity? Lay claim to human dignity, decency, or justice? At this late hour, when the coin of mercy was a debased slug not even fit to steal a gumball? When the sleep of death itself had become a luxury? How dare they be so stupid—Jim Sandoval damned them for their pride.
Resigned, lying there in the dirt, he could only shake his head as the shooting resumed. It would all be over soon.
Something slippery touched his hand.
He jumped up to see the ruined Maenad coming toward him. She was just a quivering pulp on the ground, roadkill, but she was still alive, still moving. Not fast, but faster by the second. Most incredibly, he still sensed that same wild eagerness as before, emanating from these smashed remains—pure, frenzied lust at the sight of him. As he watched, the mincemeat of her mangled flesh was knitting back together, not quite
healing
but gathering itself into sturdier form. The sound it made was awful.
There was an explosive crash down at the wharf. Still staring in horror, Sandoval thought,
What the hell are they doing now?
The shooting abruptly stopped. and the thinly officious voice of Harvey Coombs came over a loudspeaker:
“FRED, THIS IS COMMANDER COOMBS. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, BUT IN MY BOOK IT’S TREASON. YOU ARE INTERFERING WITH CRITICAL NAVAL OPERATIONS.”
Jim listened, snorting incredulously as the amplified voice of Fred Cowper, USN (Ret.), replied, “LET ME AND ALL THESE PEOPLE ON BOARD, THEN PUT US ASHORE SOMEPLACE HALFWAY SECURE!”
Was this a joke? Fred talked as if
he
was calling the shots. As if he and a ragtag bunch of hardhats and teenage boys were the ones holding the aces.
Which, Sandoval suddenly realized, they just might be.
With dawning wonder, he understood why they had brought the Sallie vehicle on their little crusade: The massive freight hauler wasn’t just to give the kids a lift. In its sheer bulk, it was the only weapon they had capable of sinking a nuclear submarine. What he was hearing down there was the ultimate game of chicken.
Demolition derby,
Sandoval thought, not without admiration.
Fred, you old bastard!
As he stood there shaking his head, the raveled Maenad rose to its feet and lurched toward him. At the same time, he could see movement in the fog: several odd-looking people running for the wharf. Not people—
Xombies
. Lots more Xombies, attracted by the light and commotion.
It was going to be a hell of a fight. Feeling reanimated himself, Jim knew he had to get down there, too … but obviously he’d never make it on foot. Dodging the gropes of that mangled Hellion, he sprinted toward the nearest available vehicle, an electric cart by the tool shed.
He wouldn’t miss this for the world.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
 
THE MOSH PIT
 
T
odd and Ray were sworn in as disciples of the Prophet Jim.
It was a strange process, requiring them first to stuff themselves with rich foods like cheese, cured meats, and canned fruitcake, then to become violently ill for three days. Purged to the point of dehydration and delirium, they were forced to confess their sins and desires at the end of a red-hot poker. After declaring their total fealty to the approved pantheon of gods and prophets, they were stripped to the waist—their revealed torsos covered with cross-shaped welts—and doused in freezing water almost to the point of drowning. Finally, they were allowed to sleep. For years, it seemed.
When they awoke, it was to gentle voices, soft robes, and delicious bread and soup.
Then the praying began. Prayers before meals, after meals, before bed, upon waking, and randomly throughout the day, religious obeisance required before and after engaging in any activity, however trivial, a constant, compulsive drone of gratitude and contrition.
Time blurred. Reality warped.
 
“
Yoo-hoo.
Wake up, sleepyhead. I’d like to show you something.”
Ray awoke to find a man’s face staring at him, inches away. It was a bulbous, boyish face, the face of a middle-aged schoolboy with hair sleeked back like a sumo. It took Ray a second to remember where he was: in his new quarters on the fourth floor of the Westin Hotel. Todd’s room was down the hall. The hotel was less luxurious than it had been formerly, having no heat, running water, electricity, working elevators, or room service, but it still looked pretty snazzy. Most of the disciples were bivouacked next door in the Providence Place Mall, camped out on the floor of Macy’s or Old Navy, and taking their meals in the Food Court.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ray asked in alarm.
“Whoa. Hey. Easy there, big fella. It’s only little ol’ me, Chace Dixon.”
The name didn’t immediately register.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“Ray, I know it’s been a while, but come on. Don’t you recognize me?”
Oh shit.
Ray hurriedly braided the frayed ends of his wits. Chace Dixon. Media Mogul and associate of Jim Sandoval. He owned an apartment in Jim’s building, and Ray had met him a few times in passing. What the hell was
he
doing here?
Then it hit him. Ray said, “Are
you
the Apostle Chace?”
“Did you just realize that? I love it! I was just thinking about you, and thought I’d drop by and say hello.”
“Hello … and good-bye.” Ray rolled over to face the wall.
Dixon sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ray, do you believe in miracles?”
“Not really.”
“I love that!
Thank
you. If only more people around here were so honest! Yet you must admit it’s a strange coincidence that you and I should meet each other again, here on the far side of the Apocalypse. One might even call it fate.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Of course it is! It’s totally nuts. But then that’s pretty much the definition of a miracle.”
“Or mental illness.”
“This from someone who claims to have seen Elvis.”
“Yeah, but I know it wasn’t really Elvis—it was Uri Miska.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loud—some people around here wouldn’t take kindly to it.”
“Why not?”
“I mean these Elvis visitations have inspired a bit of a cult. It’s a time of miracles and wonders; people are primed to believe in anything, including Elvis. They don’t want to think he’s an imposter.”
“But you know he is.”
“Let’s just say it’s part of my job description to promote miracles and wonders.”
“Have you even seen him?”
“Seen him?” Dixon said. “We shot him.”
“You what?
Shot
him?”
“Yes indeedy. After what happened to us last time we were in this town, my sentries are on a hair trigger; they shoot anything that moves. One of them put a twelve-gauge shotgun load in Elvis’s chest. Blew a hole you could have stuck your fist through, but it had no effect on him. He just kind of shook it off, and said,
‘Don’t do that, man.’
Then he was gone. I ordered the men not to report anything until I could get to the bottom of it. Thanks to you and your friend, I think we have.”
“Miska thinks you’re threatening the survival of the human race by spreading immunity to the Xombies. He says some kind of Armageddon is coming that only Xombies can survive.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think Miska’s probably crazy.”
“Put your shoes on,” Dixon said, getting up off the bed. “I’d like to show you something.”
He led Ray through a dark parking garage that connected the hotel to the Convention Center. The latter was a large, glass-faced building resembling an airport terminal. Unlike the mall or the hotel, there were very few people around.
As they walked, Dixon said, “It’s not as if I was ever that pious before Agent X. I believed in God, but organized religion was a tool of manipulation, a way to control the masses. I thought it was purely psychological, but then I had never had any real evidence to the contrary.”
Leading at a brisk pace, Dixon took Ray down a utility corridor to a heavy double door marked EMERGENCY EXIT—ALARM WILL SOUND.
In a hushed voice, he said, “We call this the Mosh Pit.”
He unbolted the door and pulled it open. On the other side was a dim balcony overlooking a huge convention hall full of people. Not people—Xombies. Thousands of eerily quiet Exes, all staring up at them. Even fifty feet above that sea of blue faces, Ray felt panic squeeze his guts like a big cold hand.
“What are they all doing here?” he asked.
“They’re locked in.”
“Why?”
“Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em. Originally, we intended to burn the whole thing down, but then we realized it wasn’t necessary. They can’t get out. It’s like storing nuclear waste. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“How’d they all get here in the first place?”
“Some are Red Cross workers and National Guard who tried to set up a safe zone during the outbreak. The rest are poor suckers who made the mistake of taking shelter here. I figure there are around twenty or thirty thousand of them altogether. Once the disease got loose among them, it was all over—we locked the doors and barricaded them shut. It’s terrible, I know, but at least they’re not suffering.”

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