Xombies: Apocalypso (6 page)

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Authors: Walter Greatshell

BOOK: Xombies: Apocalypso
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Well, perhaps it was time to wake up.
That was it—I ordered a general retreat, and we ran for the vehicles. What was left of us.
CHAPTER FIVE
 
LOVEVILLE
 
H
alf the tires were flat, but we kept driving on them until the dragging treads started to catch fire. Then we had to get off and stand around while the buses burned. Looking at the map, I noticed there was a place called Hollywood not too far away—Hollywood, Maryland. My mother used to take me to Hollywood. The real one. The memory was enough to start me moving again, and my evident purpose compelled the others to follow.
Hiking cross-country, we found a gasoline terminal and commandeered a fuel barge. Maneuvering the barge was tricky in places; the river was full of carbonized ruin that had washed down from Baltimore, its banks and shoals festooned with trash. But as we navigated downstream, the river widened, and the junk dispersed.
After a few miles, we put ashore in a cove and started walking toward Hollywood. It was a semirural area, checkered with farms that were now meadows, encroached upon by suburban developments that would croach no more.
Breasting the tall grass, surrounded by the hiss of locusts, we came to a town called Loveville, and that was it. We had all had enough. It wasn’t that we were tired—just tired of seeking something we knew didn’t exist. Tired of being disappointed. Screw Hollywood. This was a pleasant little town, with schools and churches and grocery stores. The sign said, WELCOME TO LOVEVILLE—what more could one want?
“What are we doing, Lulu?” asked Bobby. “What are we looking for?”
I had no good answer. Listening to the birds and the bees, I said, “I think this may be it.”
“What?”
“We’re home.”
 
For the first few weeks, very little happened. We existed in a dream state, some of us wandering around like sleepwalkers, others barely moving, all mesmerized by patterns of energy underlying the material world. With a little concentration, it was possible to make out the quantum-mechanical webwork that connected everything to everything else—the literal fabric of time and space. Actually, it was more like a vast harp, warping and rippling and swirling as the planet moved, vibrating a deep B minor chord from the depths of the galaxy. It called to us, promising gorgeous oblivion, but most were not ready to go … yet. We were torn between two worlds, unwilling or unable to commit to either and thus trapped in between. In limbo.
But perhaps we were underestimating ourselves. What if we didn’t have to wait for the answers we craved but could invent whatever life we wanted and simply start living it? What if we could
create
the best of all possible worlds? Customize a reality that suited our peculiar needs?
 
Alice Langhorne called a meeting:
“Lulu has brought something to my attention,” she announced. “Something that must be addressed if we are to continue as a group. We believe the present situation is becoming untenable. It’s too difficult trying to graft our previous lives onto this new set of circumstances. We failed at it on the sub, we failed at it in Providence, and we’re failing at it here. We aren’t the people we used to be, and it’s no use pretending we are. The incongruities are too … awkward. We need a less-fraught model to follow; otherwise, we’ll all crack up.”
There was silence—the truth of it was plain to all.
Langhorne continued, “Obviously, this is uncharted territory. We’re not only reinventing ourselves, we’re inventing an entirely new mode of existence—one that goes far beyond anything our human psyches can comprehend. It’s not a damn makeover. The only frame of reference we have is mythical: zombies, vampires, angels—that kind of Hollywood baloney. We all know the reality is not quite so … glamorous. We think something profound is going to happen, some kind of Armageddon, and we were altered to survive it. So we’re just hanging around, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Cosmic loitering. And if we’re not careful, we’ll all disappear right up our own black holes.”
Julian Noteiro stepped forward. “So what did Lulu suggest?”
“That we need a new script to follow—something that touches upon all the basic aspects of human society without all the oppressive limitations of that society. A stylebook that we can live by, day to day, to keep our humanity intact. So we don’t lose it.”
“You mean like the Bible?”
“Not exactly.” Langhorne picked up a stack of magazines out of a carton and slapped them down on the table. They were old comic books with titles like
LOVE
and
PEP
and
PALS ’N’ GALS
. “Lulu was thinking of something a little easier—something more along these lines.”
The crowd came forward, inspecting the comics as though they were peculiar alien artifacts. Inside the box were many more comics, as well as vintage paperback books and DVDs of old television shows. On top were discs of
The Andy Griffith Show
and
I Love Lucy
.
Langhorne said, “Let’s get started, shall we?”
 
I sat alone in the dark, reminiscing as I watched dawn creep over the horizon.
Xombies didn’t sleep. Nor could it be said that we were ever truly awake—not in the human sense. Xombies did not live in the present. Our minds wandered freely in time and space; they drifted in and out. I knew the human conception of reality was a façade erected by mortal minds to block contact with the inconceivable vastness of genuine reality. Living creatures needed this mechanism in order to forget they were doomed. Xombies did not. So in that sense it could be said that Xombies were deeply awake and that human consciousness was a mode of dreaming. A delusion.
My mother came back to me again and again. This time we were driving to McDonald’s in a borrowed Cadillac. I remembered: My mother got a job working as a housekeeper for a family in Lake Tahoe. It was a large house on a remote mountain road, and I shared a cozy room over the garage with the children of the family who owned the place. The three girls welcomed me like a sister, and their unexpected generosity filled my parched heart. Even the local elementary school was incredible, a woodsy, progressive place where the kids were friendly and the teachers funny and sane. One day, while the family was away, I made the mistake of trying to climb a steep gravel bluff, lost my footing, and slid to the bottom, badly skinning both knees. My mother found me bleeding on the doorstep and rushed me to the bathtub, where she washed the wounds and dabbed them with Mercurochrome. Once I was patched up, stiff with pain, my mother said,
You know what this means, don’t you?
What?
I sniffled.
You get a wish. A freebie.
I was propped on the couch in front of the TV, watching pornographic close-ups of golden fries.
I want a Filet-O-Fish,
I said.
Honey, the nearest McDonald’s is fifty miles away.
What about the Caddy?
I meant the family Cadillac, a pristine black limo that never left the garage except on the most special occasions—the Baxters used their two other cars for getting around. The Caddy was strictly for show.
Lulu, you know I’m not allowed to use that car. Mr. Baxter specifically said so.
My tone turned tragic; waifish tears welled up.
Why not? It’s just a quick ride into town and back. They’ll never even know.
You must be kidding. You know what’ll happen if they find out?
How could they find out? They’re in Sacramento.
Sensing my mother waver, I crooned,
Mummy, you promised—pleeeeze?
It was a thrillingly short drive: Halfway down the mountain, the Caddy ran out of gas.
We were forced to abandon the car, flagging down a passing motorist for a ride to town and paying a service station to deliver fuel. By the time we got back to the car, it had been towed. The police thought it was a stolen vehicle because the Baxters had left word they would be out of town, and the car had been vandalized. Then there was the hefty impound fee. My mother tried first to charm, then to bluster her way out, and I cranked up the waterworks, but it was no use. We had no money; we were stuck. The only way to get the car back was to call the Baxters and explain the whole situation. It was not fun. The look on Mummy’s face as she hung up the phone made it utterly clear that our life in Lake Tahoe was soon to be over. So much for the joyride. But already I was adjusting to the new reality, walling off the humiliating dismissal—
fuckit,
I thought. My attention shifted to the golden arches across the street—Mummy still had a few bucks left.
My blue lips parted, mouthing the words of that long-ago child:
Mummy? I’m still hungry.
I heard a noise. Somewhere down the block, an unmuffled two-stroke engine sputtered to life. Then another, and another, all working their way up the street. It was an unpleasant and deeply familiar sound—one I had not heard since I was alive.
Lawn mowers.
Opening the kitchen window, I leaned out to see all the crew from the boat pushing lawn mowers across their new lawns. It was still quite dark out, and the landscape was shaded deep blue under a paler sky pricked with stars. I could smell exhaust and cut grass. The stars were the only lights—there was no electricity yet.
As the mowers completed their work, and the sun cleared the rooftops, I heard a different sound, like gunshots in the distance—it was the backfiring of an old car. A moment later, the vehicle chugged into view, turning up my street.
It was an antique car, a red jalopy with the top down, squeaking and rattling as if its engine were shaking it to pieces. The spoked wheels were visibly out of alignment, and the exhaust pipe spewed a contrail of noxious fumes.
The car stopped in front of my house. I could see Jake Bartholomew in the driver’s seat; he set the brake and gave the horn a toot. Jake’s passengers jumped out and came up the walk—they were Sal DeLuca and Lemuel Sanchez.
Sal was wearing a peculiar hat, its felt brim turned up and cut to resemble a king’s crown, with colorful buttons pinned around it like jewels. Lemuel’s hair had been cropped short and bleached blond, and he was dressed in a football jersey that said QUARTERBACK. They knocked on the door.
This was unusual. The door was unlocked; nobody announced themselves anymore. Human courtesies such as respect for privacy were meaningless, especially after the forced intimacies of living together on the sub. I turned to see Alice Langhorne gliding down the stairs like a ghost. The usually austere woman was wearing a pleated pink dress and a frilly apron, but the most alarming change was her head of curlers.
“I’ll get it,” Langhorne said. Opening the front door, she said, “Good morning, boys.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Langhorne. Is Lulu around?”
“That’s
Ms.
Langhorne. And she certainly is. Lulu!”
“What?”
“Lemuel and Sal are here to pick you up.”
“Pick me up? For what?”
“Boys?”
As if reciting from a script, Sal said, “Miz Langhorne asked us to ask you if you would do us the honor of letting you drive us—I mean, letting us drive
you
, heh heh—to school.”
“
School?
Are you demented? What do you—” Langhorne jabbed me in the back.
Hard.
“Oh. Right. School, really?”
Alice Langhorne nodded grimly.
“All right,” I said. “Hang on.” I stepped into my shoes. “I’m ready; let’s go.”
“No you are not, young lady.”
“What now?”
“You can’t go to school like that. You march right upstairs and put on a clean dress and brush your hair. The boys will wait. Won’t you?”
“Yes, Miz Langhorne.”
Knowing it was pointless to argue, I climbed the stairs while Alice invited the boys in and offered them milk and cookies. Little Bobby Rubio was at the top of the stairs, staring down.
“Are you going to play school?” he asked me, as I brushed past.
“I guess so.”
“Can I play, too?”
“Go ask Alice.”
I went into my designated room and examined the clothes in the closet. They had belonged to a girl exactly my size though much younger. Taking off my filthy velvet dress, I put on a clean cotton one—a sunny yellow number with black polka dots. Then I brushed my hair into some semblance of order and tied it with a bow. Flying back downstairs, I was intercepted by Langhorne, who spit-shined my face and handed me a sack lunch before letting me out the door.
“Have a nice day at school!” she called after us.
Getting into the car, I was struck anew by the boys’ weirdly preppy appearance. Jake’s copper-colored hair was parted into two lobes in front and buzzed short at the sides, the stubble shaved in a peculiar grid pattern. He wore a V-neck sweater over a dress shirt, baggy golf pants, and brown-and-white gaiters.

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