Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Prairie Schooner, Sal thought. Injun country.

Heedless of the six-wheeled juggernaut, Xombies were squashed into the mud by the dozens, by the hundreds, their ribs collapsing like crates and inky blood jetting from every orifice. It was a temporary condition; they would be back. Over the rail Sal could see blue arms flailing as more Xombies lunged against the sides, but they weren't coming aboard. Something seemed to be preventing them from hanging on.

As he watched, a particularly eager female crested the railing only to be stopped short by contact with that garden of disembodied limbs nailed to the gunwales. The effect was immediate: Hundreds of undead arms, themselves intent on the boys, jerked like a mass of disturbed snakes and hurled the attacking Xombie against a tree.

"Why aren't they coming in?" Freddie whimpered.

"The hands," Sal said. "The hands aren't letting them. I don't think they like being grabbed."

"You got that right," said the leader. "They strongly object to bein' manhandled by one of they own. You ever see how magnets repel each other? That's what it's like. Them Harpies spook to each other's touch-it's like an electric shock or something. Maybe it reminds 'em a what they is."

Another man said, "Nah, that ain't it. They just a hindrance to each other, that's all, an obstacle to be avoided-ain't no feeling about it. All they can see is us, like as if we got a damn neon sign over our heads."

"Don't make no damn difference why it works," said the first man, "long as it works." To the boys, he said, "They won't even fight over us. They got this system for keeping things polite: first come, first served. One to a customer. Ain't you never noticed how when a Harpy grabs someone, the rest of 'em just shy off? We call it the Solomon Principle. Otherwise, they'd tear each other to pieces, and us, too. By wearing their doodads, we give off that vibe of being spoken for; our dance card is full."

"Damn," said Sal, awestruck. This was like discovering fire. "It's like the ultimate camouflage!"

Kyle said, "I wish we'd known about this shit sooner. Get me a Xombie-skin jacket."

The man nodded. "Damn straight. It's like a protective membrane, like them Nemo fish that can live in a poisonous sea flower. We just goin' back to nature."

"How'd you figure all this out?" Sal asked.

"We didn't. It come down from the man upstairs-part of our shareholder benefits. But your boys on the sub must get the tech updates, too. Ain't you got no company rep?"

"Oh… sure. Definitely."

Still dumbfounded, Freddy asked, "But can't it get at you? Their skins, I mean? Aren't you scared of it touching you? Hurting you somehow?"

"It wants to-that's what holds 'em on so tight. That, and some staples. But we figured out that by using pelts from different Harpies it causes friction between 'em, and the aversion keeps 'em on their own little territories, like countries on a map. That's what we got goin' here on each of us: a little model of detente."

It did look like a map. A hairy, pulsating relief map. "But how can you stand it touching you?" Kyle asked.

"Oh, it don't touch us, trust me. We're all wearing protective duds underneath this. You gotta: Once it latches on, it's very hard to remove unless you tempt it off with bare skin, which is why we been makin' you boys keep your distance. Don't get in reach of them hands, neither. Harpy hide is tricky stuff. It can be sticky or slippery, depending, and you cain't never forget that it wants to get at you. Because it surely won't."

"Then how do you ever get it off again?"

"Oxygen. Pure oxygen neutralizes Agent X-puts the meat right to sleep."

Freddy piped up. "Carbon monoxide works, too."

The man looked at him strangely, said, "That's true, but that'd also put us to sleep. Forever."

The truck left the densest concentration of Xombies, and the ride became smoother. The only sounds now were the engine and the slash of foliage against the sides. They lurched left, turning sharply up a marshy path and trundling over a downed chain-link fence. Bumping over a curb, they were suddenly back in civilization, the parking lot of a small shopping center. EASTSIDE MARKET said the anchor store, and adjoining it were a chain video outlet and a drive-thru bank. Across the parking lot stood a large pharmacy.

The leader announced, "Last stop! Ever'body off the bus." When the boys started to get up, he said, "Not you. You boys need to stay down, out of sight."

Men had been hard at work here already. Every shopping cart in the place was lined up outside the market, fifty or more, all laden with groceries. There were also rolling pallets covered with larger bulk items: huge bags of rice, beans, flour, sugar, and hand trucks stacked with more cases of goods. They had cleaned the place out. A second duck boat was parked across the lot, its crew busily raiding the drugstore.

"Daaamn," whispered Kyle. "They got a major operation goin' here."

"Yeah," said Sal.

"If they can walk around out in the open, what they need all this food for? And where they takin' this stuff? They got enough here for an army."

"I think you answered your own question."

The leader shouted, "All right, load 'em up."

The truck's fleshy canopy was pulled back, and a small crane was deployed, winching the goods up onto the deck. Not everything would fit. There would obviously have to be several more trips. The men didn't seem to be in any hurry. It took half an hour just to stow this one load and make sure its weight was distributed evenly.

Though it appeared that they had dodged the main body of Xombies, every now and then a straggler or two wandered in, sensing the boys and running across the parking lot. The first time this happened, they flipped out, pointing and shouting hysterically: Ohmygodlookout! By the third time, they just watched mesmerized as the terrifying fiends out of their worst nightmares, unkillable demons that had terrorized them and destroyed the world, were methodically harpooned and dragged by an electric reel to the back of the vehicle, where a bunch of them already hung, flopping helplessly.

"Like a string a catfish, ain't it?" One of the men laughed.

Freddy asked, "What happens if a lot of them come all at once, like before?"

"We'd just have to drive you boys around the block and lead 'em off. They're pretty dumb. Normally, we don't even see 'em-it's you they after."

Then the loading was finished, and they all took seats as best they could amid all the sacks and cartons. The boys felt strange to be surrounded by so much food when they had been hungry for so long. If the guys on the sub could see this! The thought reminded them that it was becoming late; they were overdue. Would Kranuski sail without them?

The engine rumbled to life, and they drove back down the embankment the way they had come, back to the train tracks. In a moment, they were out of the trees and in sight of the big railroad trestle. Turning aside, the driver eased them down the steep bank of the river and straight into the water. Plunging heavily downward, the truck settled deep, bobbed upward, and became a true boat.

Sal suddenly had the crazy thought that perhaps they were being returned to the submarine. Could it possibly be that all this food was for them? Was there some alliance between these men and those on the sub? He didn't dare say anything, not wanting to jinx his wildest hope that the terror of the last few hours was finally over. That they were safe.

As the amphibious truck scudded downriver toward the bay, its ugly-masked captain asked, "Now, what you boys doin' here?"

Another man said, "They come off'n that submarine, Marcus, I told you."

"Shut up and let them tell it. We know you boys come off that sub; the question is why?"

Sal hesitated. He thought it might be dangerous to mention that they were refugees from MoCo-the Mogul Cooperative. The place up north from which they had all barely escaped and which had left them all with grim souvenirs of their brush with corporate governance: permanent scars on their foreheads… and deeper scars on their psyches. It was more than likely that these men worked for the Moguls. He stumbled for words, but before he could speak, Kyle answered, "Hunger, dude. Provisions."