Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

He found one: a tiny, windowless closet in the back, with a toilet and sink. But as he stepped inside the dark cubby, his right foot fell down a gap in the floorboards, and something grabbed his leg from underneath, twisting and pulling with inhuman strength. His hip joint ruptured with an audible crack.

Screaming in agony, he realized the impossibility of his entire body fitting down that crevice, the incomprehensible ramifications of that, and the last thought Ted Kleinmetz had as he blacked out from the pain of his leg being ripped off was a memory of something one of his victims had said to him right before he pulled the trigger:

Uncle, dammit, uncle!

"CHEW DUNE, BOA?" the monster roared again.

Sal awoke, confused, then recoiled and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to die quickly. He couldn't bear to look. Every inch of the thing held a new horror: cancerous growths of ears, nipples, belly buttons, genitals-a cannibal collage of misplaced organs. And on top of it all a head like a spiny leather cactus, with three blackened holes for a face. It reminded him of something out of a comic book he had once read, about a swamp monster called the Man-Thing, whose tagline was Whatever knows fear BURNS at the Man-Thing's touch.

Sal was speechless, unable to think. Deafened by the blood rushing in his ears, he was yet able to sense that the other boys had gone equally silent and still. And he knew why: They were surrounded, the wood taken over by dozens of these horrific things, rising amid the swamp brush like ghastly sentinels.

The monster leaned closer. "Ahmo ask yew once mo: What the hail you all doin' heah? Ah-bla Inglays?"

Its heavy Southern drawl suddenly clicked.

"Nothing!" Sal cried, relieved to understand, to at least be able barely to comprehend what this appalling vision was saying to him. To know that it was in some way human. This hopeful possibility triggered a domino effect in his mind: Of course it was human! Yes, he could see it now, a face through the eyeholes-there was some kind of man in there. The Xombie flesh was only skin deep, a grisly living costume. He was not a Xombie at all but dressed in Xombies. Armored from head to toe in living Xombie flesh.

Weeping, Sal cried, "We're running away from Xombies! They're coming! Help us, please!"

"Xombies, hell. You ain't-"

Just then the churning, rumbling noise within the tunnel became very loud. Waves lapped out from its mouth, fanning across the mired boys, then a single high, resounding voice: "Yeeeeehaaaaaaw!"

And out came the boat.

It was a large amphibious truck, a converted military landing craft of the type called a duck boat, familiar to Sal from preapocalypse days as a tourist ride. The aft end of it was covered with a peculiar, fleshy canopy resembling a Conestoga wagon, Xombie skins stretched over aluminum ribs like the translucent webbing of a bat's wing. On its hull, painted in ornate letters, were the words PRAIRIE SCHOONER. The vehicle's open front appeared shaggy, its high gunwales festooned with an odd, rippling mass of bluish fronds, opening and closing like blooming flower petals. Not flowers-arms. A thousand clutching, severed arms, nailed down like blossoms on a Rose Parade float.

"We found one of Miska's!" the truck's driver shouted. Upon seeing the boys, he pulled up short, and called down, "Well, well! Looks like we ain't the only ones to bag us a prize. What we got here?"

In their ghoulish second skins, the vehicle's crew were no less unspeakably awful than the men on the ground, each one's costume arranged differently according to personal idiosyncrasy, each one with a large black number scorched-branded-on the front of his leathery helmet. But there was no question now that there were ordinary men underneath. Aside from the massive vehicle, the proof was in the axes, spears, guns, lights, and sophisticated night-vision equipment they carried-Xombies traveled much lighter. But with their Xombie armor and medieval weaponry, they resembled nothing so much as a boatload of hideously deformed goblins. Aliens. Mutants. It was not such fanciful monstrosities that sprang foremost to Sal's mind, however. The whoops, ropes, drawling banter, and holstered staple guns were indicative of a slightly more r eassuring archetype.

Cowboys, he thought crazily. Rednecks. Shit, that's all we need: a bunch of sadistic backwoods shitkickers-probably necrophiliacs, too. Necrophiliacs and cannibals. They'll rape us, then kill us, then rape us again, then eat us, then wear our skins as hats.

Somehow that still wasn't as scary to him as Xombies.

"Who-who are you guys?" he asked shrilly.

"Ain't that funny," said the monstrous vision. "I was about to ask you the same thing. But I guess we both have to wait-trouble's nigh."

"Harpies bazaar!" someone whooped.

The Xombies were upon them.

First there was the sound, a rushing commotion in the dense underbrush, crackling like wildfire. Then, far down the glade, Sal saw a solid wave of manic blue bodies sprinting toward them. Swarming up the railroad tracks, the river of trampling ghouls gathered force as it approached, secondary streams of Xombies merging with it out of the trees.

Sal barely had time to think before a blue hand seized him by the front of his jacket. The hand was not attached to a person, but to the end of a long pole wielded by a man on the duck boat. The man shouted, "Hang on!" and in one dizzying swoop Sal was swung over the high rail of the truck-its frilled arms following him like iron filings after a magnet-and dumped hard onto its rubberized foredeck. Someone planted his bootheel on Sal's chest, using a crowbar to pry the hand loose. It hurt.

Knocked flat on his back, Sal rolled aside just as another boy tumbled in, crying "Hey!"-it was Kyle Hancock. Two other boys followed in quick succession, Todd Holmes and Freddy Fisk, boated like flopping tuna, then finally Ray Despineau. No sign of the rest; they had scattered, fleeing into the trees. Sal tried to get up, but one of the grisly men pinned him with a spear handle, and barked, "Stay still!"

Suddenly, they could hear Xombies all around the vehicle, the terrifying wash of sound filling the air. Sal's body tensed in expectation of blue demons pouring over the rails-the duck boat was wide open. But the creatures did not come in. As the truck lurched into motion, the men on foot calmly hoisted themselves up the rear step, piling in with practiced ease. The Xombies weren't touching them.

"Phew, that's a peck of 'em," one said, voice muffled beneath his spiny meat helmet.

"You have to help the others!" Sal cried. "Please!"

"We would if'n we could, but they already gone. Ain't nobody can he'p them now."

A flurry of Xombies boiled up against the rail, threatening to spill over.

Freddy screamed, "Why don't you shoot! They're coming in!"

"We don't waste good ammo on Harpies."

Another said, "Don't do no good."

"Fact it makes things worse. Just more bits and pieces to contend with."

Their resolve on this point was demonstrated when a feral blue infant leaped from a tree toward the huddled boys. Instead of shooting it, the crew deftly speared the flailing thing in midair and pitched it overboard. They all had such lances; the craft's topside bristled with them, every one unique as though for a specialized purpose, or perhaps just customized to suit the user. The basic design was long wooden handles tipped with variously shaped iron spikes, blades, and sharp-pronged hooks, though a few also had severed Xombie hands affixed to them. The choice of such a tool, and the skill with which it was being wielded, evinced a level of casual use that Sal found both alarming and wildly reassuring.

The boys could hear Xombie skulls thwacking against the hull as the truck plowed through. Its angled bow was particularly well suited to this purpose, rafting atop the slippery living cataract.