Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

"Provisions?" The man spoke the word as if it was a foreign language. "What do you think we been doin' here for the past week but gathering trade goods? You don't but have to load 'em on board."

I knew it! Sal thought. He had no idea who this man thought they were, but he nodded, and said, "Oh, okay. Cool."

"But they just set you ashore, anyway? To play tag with them blue monkeys?"

"We needed food."

"Son, food's about ninety percent of what we do. They's already near on two hunnerd tons of it sitting on the Mobile Bay just waitin' to be picked up. I don't get it. Somebody's confused here, and it ain't me. Now, let's try this again real slow: Did they really send you out in your shirtsleeves on a little shopping trip, or is it that you was lookin' for something else? Down that tunnel back yonder, maybe?"

"I'm really not sure, sir. We have a new commander, and things have been a little… confused lately, so I guess maybe they forgot to tell us something."

The men shook their heads and made sounds of contempt. "So you're just out here rustlin' up some grub? Some bacon and eggs, maybe? Some Malt-O-Meal? Shit, son, I guess they don't like you much. What'd you think them signal fires was for? I suppose you don't know nothing about that tunnel back there."

"We don't."

"That look like a Piggly Wiggly to you?"

"No, sir. We-"

The man jerked his chin up at a Xombie jutting from the vehicle's saw-toothed bowsprit. Sal was shocked to realize that it was Lulu. "Or this little cutie right here-ain't she about the tamest Harpy you ever seen? Now why is that? See, that tunnel was booby-trapped eight ways to Sunday-anybody goin' in the front door would get flushed right out the back. We done had it staked out for three days now, just in case some person or nonperson of interest might happen along and trip the switch. Like this 'un here."

Sal now had a pretty good suspicion of who these men were, upon whose mercy they were depending, and it didn't look good. These had to be the foragers, the worker ants at the bottom of the Mogul pyramid, the ground troops in the war for groceries. Slaves to the machine just as he and the other boys had briefly been slaves.

"Don't tail me you don't know what I'm talkin' about, boy."

Before Sal could stop him, Freddy Fisk piped in. "We know her. That's Lulu Pangloss. We had a bunch of Xombies like her on board. They're different because they all get shots of Lulu's blood, and it acts on them sort of like, like Ritalin or something."

"Her blood?" the awful face asked, leaning in. "Run that by me again, son."

"Dr. Langhorne gave her something-I don't know much about it, but they call it the Tonic. Ow!-lay off! She and the other Xombies were sent ashore separate from us because nobody knew what they would do on their own. If they came back, I think Dr. Langhorne was hoping to use them as a foraging squad."

The men's eyebrows rose at this; they looked at each other. One of them mouthed the word Tonic, and another, Langhorne. Freddy sensed the heightened interest and suddenly wondered if he should have spoken so freely, rubbing his arm where Kyle had pinched it.

Trying to limit the damage, Sal cut in. "But we don't know anything about that tunnel-we were just on the run from Xombies." He became choked up. "Most of our party's been wiped out."

The circle of gruesome helmets stared silently at them for a long minute, eerie as witch-doctor masks, then one of the men asked, "Why you boys on that submarine in the first place? Since when does the Navy give out free kid-die rides?"

Sal replied, "We helped fix it up for a refugee ship. Our dads worked for the submarine company."

"You the leader?"

Sal hesitated, but when none of the other boys spoke up, he said, "I guess."

"I figured, 'cuz you seem to be doin' most of the talkin'. What about the rest of y'all? Why you got them scabs on your foreheads? Look like a bunch of damn Hare Krishnas. And I still don't understand how come they sent you out like this, pedaling damn bicycles! Just don't make no damn sense. Something ain't right, and I mean to find out what."

Kyle replied, "It's the first time we've gone ashore, sir. The city looked empty. I guess we just weren't expecting so many Xombies."

Ray Despineau spoke for the first time all day. He was a quiet, shy boy, made quieter and more introverted by the loss of his family. On the boat he rarely spoke to anyone but Sal, and only in the gloomiest tones. This had become something of a running joke among the other boys, which had caused Ray to retreat even further inward. In monotone, he said, "You bump your head a lot on a submarine."

The men burst into gales of laughter.

Helmet bobbing, the Texarkanan said, "Shit, son, you made my day. Well, all right, then. Don't you worry none about it. Don't make a lick a sense, but I suppose it'll all come out in the wash. In the meantime we-all gone be buckaroos. Shee-it, boys! Where the hail are my manners? We ain't even been properly introduced. Name's Marcus Amos Washington, but they call me Voodooman. You'll have to excuse us if we don't shake your hands, but it might be a little hard to turn loose again. My second-in-command here is Mr. Righteous Weeks."

"Greetings, boys," said Weeks. "Marcus won't tell you how he got his name, but I will: It's from the prize bull he rode to win his first championship belt-one mean mo'fuckin' steer name of Voodoo. Nobody else ever went the full eight seconds on that devil, not even in the professional circuit. That was goin' on twenty years ago, when Marcus warn't much older'n you boys and green as grass, so you can take that as proof that anything's possible in this here world-hell, look at us now. Lemme hear you shout: Yee-haa!"

Looking at each other, the boys feebly replied, "Yee-haa."

"Come on now," Weeks prompted. "YEE-HAA!"

"Yee-haa!"

"That's just pitiful. Let's show 'em how to do it: YEEEE-HAAA!"

"YEEEE-HAAA!" all the men whooped, shooting pistols in the air and outwhooping each other.

While this was going on, Sal happened to notice that the tide was running at its peak. If Mr. Kranuski's plan still held, the sub would likely be on the move. But since it couldn't submerge until it reached the open sea, they could probably still catch it if they tried. He had to yell to be heard above the din: "Sir? Could you just tell me, are we going back to the boat now?"

"The boat?"

"The submarine."

"What's your hurry, son?"

"Well, they told us they were going to sail with the tide, and we're running pretty late."

As though reassuring a small child, Voodooman said, "Now, don't you worry none, we gone get you to your boat… all in good time. Meantime, you just set a spell."

Sal didn't like the way he said it.

"Here are your new quarters," Kranuski said, opening the door to the executive-officer suite. "Don't ever say I never did anything for you."

Alton Webb went inside, nodding appreciatively. It was nothing he hadn't seen before, but it was finally his. Quite a leap for a guy who never expected to be promoted above senior chief, much less become a commissioned officer, lieutenant grade-and now the ship's XO, no less. It would have been a dream come true if it all wasn't just more proof that everything had gone to shit. That devalued the achievement somewhat.

Webb looked around the little cabin, cozy as a first-class train compartment with its fake wood paneling, personal desk, bunk, and cleverly stowable sink. His whole body was tense with anticipation.

"Ah, my old room." Kranuski sighed jokingly. He had been in there less than three months. "So many memories…" He tapped the bulkhead as though petting a loyal old horse, then ran his hand down to the handle of an adjoining door. It opened onto a tiny shower compartment that connected the XO quarters with his new command stateroom on the opposite side.