Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

They entered the city. The way was narrow and increasingly steep, archaic and picturesque, with Colonial-era structures all around: residential houses, taverns, lawyers' offices. An art-house cinema advertising a Chinese love story. Lulu could see a number of steeples ranged along the hill and a golden dome. Some windows and doors had been broken open, and there was weather damage-wires down, broken tree limbs-but with the budding spring foliage, the scene was peaceful, nearly pleasant.

Continuing up two blocks, they found Benefit Street. "Now turn left," Langhorne instructed. "It's a few blocks down, on the left-hand side-you're looking for a red house, number 182. The Lazarus Speake House."

As the sun came up, they passed the Greek-columned Athenaeum Library (its chiseled inscription: COME HITHER EVERYONE THAT THIRSTETH), then crossed above the white edifice of the First Baptist Church. Cars were sitting abandoned in the intersection, their doors hanging open. A few buildings farther down, they found the address they were looking for, a small, steep-roofed red cottage teetering on the brink of a cliff overlooking downtown. It had tiny windows, built for a time when people couldn't afford the luxuries of light and fresh air, when they huddled close together for warmth. It was nothing, little more than a shack. This was Uri Miska's infamous laboratory?

"Go inside," Langhorne said.

The front door was already open, a trail of soggy personal debris scattered along the walk, mostly books and artwork, a trampled Klimt print-glints of gold amid the trash. They crowded in. It was just as cramped as it appeared, with a low ceiling and several small rooms. The rear ones were brighter, facing the sunrise. The furniture had all been torn apart with ruthless efficiency; the place had clearly been searched, stripped. And it hadn't been an easy job, judging from the number of bullet holes riddling the plaster.

As they kicked their way through the wreckage, there were weird rustlings underfoot. Something scuttled crablike into the corner, and Lulu could see it was a disembodied hand. There were a number of hands loose in the room, some with partial arms. There were also legs and feet, as well as squirming organs of all types. The heads had mostly been blown to bits, but they were around, too, eyeballs creeping like snails. Clearly a lot of Xombies had been blasted to pieces by whoever sacked this place.

It meant nothing to Lulu. Her interest was purely abstract as they checked the attic, then the basement, beginning to realize that there was nothing here. No Miska and certainly no laboratory-Dr. Langhorne was wrong, or deliberately lying, as the living were prone to do. To uselessly prolong their dwindling span of life. They would do anything for that. Lulu remembered well.

"Look under the furnace," Langhorne said. "Move it aside. I'm pretty sure there's some trick to it."

There was an ancient, rusty furnace in the middle of the basement floor, a heavy contraption set on a huge stone slab. It looked impregnable. Albemarle and Lemuel-the biggest guys-were about to try tearing it loose, when Lulu noticed four massive iron bolts anchoring it in place. They looked like they had been there for hundreds of years, but suddenly Lulu sensed an odd dampness about them, a wispy condensation like swamp gas. Breath from a tomb. Wait-see? Without exchanging any words, she set her boys prying up the bolts. Once they discovered that the threads were backward, it was simple. In moments, the whole furnace and slab slid easily aside as if on casters. There were stairs underneath, descending into darkness. "Xibalba," Langhorne breathed. "All right, gentlemen. I want you to know that I do not relish taking command in this way. In fact, if there were any other alternative, I would gladly pursue it, even to the extent of resigning my commission. But we have no legal recourse here, no grievance committee, no avenue of escape whatsoever. We are all in the same boat, so to speak. What I want you all to know is that I am here to represent you, the ship's officers and able seamen. That includes those of you who may disagree with my present actions. But I think it safe to say that most of us here have become increasingly unsatisfied with command decisions that reflect neither the legitimate concerns of this crew nor any ordinary military protocol. Of course this is not an ordinary situation, but that makes it all the more crucial that we act with uncompromising rigor in approaching this new set of realities. That we acknowledge that we are a priceless national asset and must act accordingly to ensure our survival. That the preservation of this vessel and its functional crew must now trump any other consideration-at least until such time as we receive orders to the contrary from whatever senior authority may still exist. We are privileged to have the means to seek out such authority, and I intend to do so. Until then, this submarine is our sacred trust, which we are sworn to deliver; these decks represent American soil. That means this boat is America, gentlemen. Therefore, I say to you: Anything that is incompatible with the smooth functioning of this vessel must be rejected. Swiftly and with extreme prejudice. Any questions?" Kranuski searched the crowded mess hall for doubters.

"All right, Captain," said Dan Robles, standing by the juice machine. He could feel Webb's murderous stare. "What do you propose to do about the provisions? Those kids back there are starving."

"I'm glad you asked that, Lieutenant. That's my first order of business. We can no longer afford to consider ourselves a refugee ship. Everyone on board has to bring something to the table-it's a simple matter of fairness. We all have to earn our keep. Out of eighty-eight boys back there, only about half are working on qual cards. The rest are just taking up space. That can't continue-we can't afford it. So I propose we kill two birds with one stone: Send the unskilled out on a foraging run. We're stuck here until the next tide anyway. Might as well get those kids earning their keep."

"They'll be wiped out!"

"Not necessarily. We don't know exactly what conditions are like ashore, but so far there hasn't been a single Xombie sighting. The only excitement has come from the living: those fires and that survivor kid-another refugee, just what we need. Even Langhorne admits the streets are clear. The only creeps out there are hers."

Phil Tran stepped forward. "Some of those kids can barely stand up, much less go on a raiding party. They're undernourished, half-sick."

"Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?" said Kranuski, baldly scornful. Phil Tran had some slight medical training, a couple of years, but he was really a sonar expert. Their original medical officer had bought it two months ago, when out of Harvey Coombs's stupidity Xombies briefly got loose in the boat. Since then, Tran was accorded the role of corpsman-everybody was doing double and triple duty on this cruise. That didn't give him the right to act like Dr. House.

Kranuski continued, "Anyway, that's the whole point-they're not going to get any fatter if the food runs out. Should we send essential personnel out there? Is that what you're suggesting? Or should we just wait in this boat until we all starve? I think not. So, Phil, because you're so concerned with those kids' welfare, I'm making it your duty to choose up a shore party and organize the field trip. Map out a location, brief them, and send them on their way. You have thirty minutes. Anything you need, talk to Mr. Webb-he's acting XO. Just make sure to have them back by 0900. That's when we sail."

Crisis management was an oxymoron. Virtually every relevant government entity succumbed in the first few minutes: The Federal Emergency Management Agency, the Department of Homeland Security, the National Guard-all folded instantly. Before midnight, there was a functioning body known as the Pentagon-after midnight, there simply wasn't. The building was still there, just as imposing, but within it was a chamber of horrors-a thousand-room death trap. There is evidence that a number of male employees locked themselves into offices, restrooms, closets, or any other hiding places they could find, desperately attempting to call out. As we have seen, this was as ineffectual as the popguns wielded by security personnel. The phone lines were jammed, no help was forthcoming. A voice believed to be that of Army Chief of Staff Bernard Tate recorded this phone message: "All the women staff are (unintelligible)-they're taking over the building! Send troops, send (unintelligible)! We're trapped in the utility room behind the General's Mess, but they know we're here. Oh my God… oh my God-(unintelligible)-mania of some kind, chemical warfare. It's spreading like wildfire, infecting the men. They don't stay down! Get away from the door! Get back, get back, shit-(unintelligible screams)." -The Maenad Project Three hours, that was all they had. Squinting out at the clear light of dawn, they knew it wouldn't be long enough. Not nearly long enough.