Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Air Force base? she asked, only half-listening to him. It was her third drink. Laboratory where? Arctic what?

There's an old Air Force base up there, left over from the Cold War. It's in Greenland. The government's converting part of the site into a storage depot for sensitive materials and personnel in case of a pandemic. Homeland Security stuff, all very hush-hush. We got the contract-mucho dinero. The downside is that they want it done yesterday.

I can't go to Greenland.

Why not?

Why not? Are you trying to be funny? With all this crap going on?

I know you're burned-out; we've all been under tremendous stress lately. That's why I think a change of scenery could do you some good-not just you, but your whole division. Miska's already agreed to hold the fort. Get away from here for a little while, a paid vacation out of that dungeon.

Why? Are indictments coming down?

I could think of nicer places if that were the case. This isn't Acapulco.

When would I have to leave?

That's the catch: You have to report by next weekend, preferably sooner.

Well, it's out of the question then. You know I can't go anywhere until after New Year's.

Sure you can.

Lowering her voice, she said, Idiot-I have to be present in the lab when that morphocyte degrades. What do you think I've been waiting for all these months? Singing "Auld Lang Syne" with Regis? I can't rest easy until this thing elapses and returns to its constituents.

You can track it just as easily in Greenland. You said it was everywhere.

Are you serious? All my equipment is here.

Not anymore. It's been shipped.

What?

He nodded slowly, the cat that swallowed the canary.

Jim, you better be joking.

Sorry to spring it on you like this.

Since when? she demanded.

Since early this morning. The whole kit 'n' kaboodle, on a C-130 transport out of T.F. Green. Your friend Dr. Stevens rode along to make sure it all went smoothly.

Chandra's in on this? Are you all out of your fucking minds?

I would have told you yesterday, but you were kind of out of it. Hey, it's just for a couple of months. I may even drop in on you guys up there later.

I can't believe this. This is all too weird right now.

Come on-weird is good. Weird is just what the doctor ordered.

Yeah, but which doctor? Witch doctor-I made a funny. Which doctor's the witch doctor?

Alice, you're drunk.

She leaned in close, breathing gin fumes into his face. And you're a bastard. But I'll be sober in the morning.

"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten me into."

Alice Langhorne was sitting on one of the brown Naugahyde couches in the goat locker, playing solitaire. Not looking up from her cards, she said, "What do you suppose happens now? They make us walk the plank?"

Pacing, Coombs said, "There's no plank on a submarine."

"The screen door, then."

"I just don't understand what Kranuski thinks he's going to get out of this."

"You don't? He already sold out the boat once before, didn't he?"

"Not deliberately. I can't believe he did that deliberately. He didn't know about the Moguls, and as soon as we all realized what was going on, Rich stopped cooperating with them… even under torture. I saw it. The man's a walking recruiting poster-his sense of duty is sincere, if misguided."

"You mean he's got a major stick up his butt."

"He has good reason to be that way. There's no margin for error on a submarine. If you heard the tape of the Thresher going down, you'd know what I mean. And let me tell you something about Richard Kranuski: He has more reason than most to want to stick to protocol. He had a bad hazing experience at the Academy-a couple of drunk midshipmen hung him off a second-floor balcony by his ankles and dropped him. Ended their careers, and it's only a miracle Kranuski wasn't killed or paralyzed. Since then, he hasn't had much tolerance for games."

"Well, that explains it."

"What?"

"He fell on his head."

"I'm just worried he's being manipulated by Webb."

"That meathead?"

"Alton Webb's been developing a regular little following by playing on the men's fears and telling them what they want to hear. At first I thought it was a useful tool to keep morale up and maintain order, but now I realize he obviously had other ambitions. Webb's second-in-command now; all he has to do is remove Rich, and he'll be running the show."

"I hate to tell you, Chief, but he's already running the show."

"Yeah… yeah, but why? For what purpose?"

"Who knows? Demigod of the seas isn't enough?"

"Webb used to be a good officer. Kranuski, too. We all were."

"Those were the days, my friend. The question is, what do we do now?"

"Hold up!" Sal called softly, waving the boys to stop. Still no sign of Xombies. Through the window he could see hundreds of bikes filling every inch of the store. Better still, it was a repair shop, which meant that a lot of the bikes should be good to go, tires all pumped up and waiting for their owners to come get them. He checked the door. It was locked, of course. Damn! They didn't dare break in-it would make too much of a racket. What now?

Sensing Sal's indecision, Russell shoved past him and stuffed his coat over a windowpane in the door. As Sal started to say, "No, don't-!" the bigger boy gave it a sharp tap with a rock. The glass tinkled inward, barely audible.

"I done this before," he said, reaching through to unlock it. They quickly filed inside.

As the last of them came in, Sal said, "Wait, where are the others?"

"They gone, man."

"What?"

"They didn't never make it outta the minimart."

"Are you kidding? And you just left them there?" Sal was almost yelling.

"You left 'em, bro. We were all following you."

"But I didn't know! I was counting on you guys to-"

"To what? To die like them? Ain't nobody could help them, man. Come on, what the fuck we here for?"

Trying to gather his wits, shaken by the magnitude of his failure-ten, no, eleven guys gone!-Sal said dully, "Uh, yeah… just grab whatever you think you can ride. Shit, dude. Keep it simple-no crazy junk with eighty-eight gears. These are good up here. Pull 'em down, check the tires for air…" He could feel his eyes watering, wanting to cry.

Something flashed by outside the window. A blurred human shape, bright in the daylight, its eyes and mouth three gaping black pits. Then another rushed by. And another and another. The last one stopped short, peering into the dark shop. There was an electric jolt of eye contact-and every boy in the room felt his bowels turn to water.

The thing staring at them was a teenage girl, or once had been. Now it was a naked blue banshee, deathly savage, with long, curved fingernails, nipples like tarnished iron spikes, and hair a black nest of brambles. Sal was reminded of the cover of an old picture book that had given him nightmares as a child: Struwwelpeter-the grotesque boy who never cut his hair or nails. It whirled and came at them.

"Damn," Derrick croaked. "Here she comes."

There was nowhere they could hide; the store was wide open, all glass. As most of the boys scrambled backward, Sal jumped forward and opened the front door.

"Hell you doin'?" Kyle yelled, leaping to stop him.

Sal hissed back, "If it has to break in, it'll give us away!"

Russell rammed Kyle clear of the doorway as the Xombie came hurtling through. "Nail it!" he cried to the others, jumping for cover. They shrank backward, tumbling over bikes and each other to escape.

As the ferocious gargoyle plunged after them, Sal dove to shut the door, then grabbed the first thing at hand, the frame of a little girl's bike, and swung it around by its glittery, pink-tasseled handlebars, hoping to use the sharp ends of the bike's front fork as a weapon.