Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

"And what's that?"

"Shit, boy, work with me! Don't you even know why you're here? To gather weekly shipments of supplies and deliver them up to you folks for pickup. SPAM, it's called-hell, we only been doin' it all up and down the whole damn eastern seaboard. Government handles the rest, using cargo planes, submarines, ships, and whatnot. It ain't no damn secret. What did you think them signal fires were for, a weenie roast? When we saw that big-ass submarine come humpin' up the channel, we damn sure figured that's what y'all was here for-'less there's some other submarine we don't know about."

Sal shrugged, heart pounding.

"Then you folks take it all up north somewhere, Valhalla, God knows where that is-we just call it the North Pole. Whatever they're using as the provisional capital until they can come back, jump-start the country again." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "I hear tell they got women up there to use as breeding stock. Must be right nice, considering all the goodies we send 'em."

Sal couldn't help asking, "Why do you do it?"

"Yeah," Kyle said. "What do you get out of it?"

"Same as you. Manifest destiny! We the new colonials, man-we building a new nation, all pulling together. And it ain't just a one-way street: They provide us with logistical support, mapping out the best pickings, updatin' us on the latest research-that's how come we here at all. Couldn't hardly set foot on dry land before. Now we got free run of the place, and it's only gonna get better. Soon they'll have a vaccine for Agent X, then everything will start up again… with the deck reshuffled in our favor."

Sal thought Voodooman's mythologizing had the sound of something predigested and regurgitated whole, a canned pep talk like those self-help tapes his mom used to listen to in the car. A mantra to ward off dread. But perhaps he was wrong about the dread-these men all seemed to be having the time of their lives. And why wouldn't they be? Unexpectedly freed from prison, given the run of this all-you-can-grab Armageddon-it was like hitting the jackpot.

He blurted, "Doesn't it scare you, though?"

"What?"

"That it might never happen. That all this might be just pie in the sky?"

"Pie hail. It's our cut of the American pie, boy-the American dream. Forty million acres and a mule. Property is power. Power of ownership-that's the story of the human race. People come and go, but real estate is forever. We're taking ownership of these new territories so that when Agent X runs its course, and the scientists hand down their cure, we'll have staked our claims. Australia was founded by prisoners; this'll be our homeland, our Botany Bay."

But how do you know you can trust them? Sal wanted to ask.

The duck boat approached the nearest barge, the cargo carrier, its flank looming above like a rust-streaked cliff topped with barbed wire. One of the men shouted, "Boat Three with fresh fish. Open up!" and a door cranked open, lowering on chains like a drawbridge. When it was at the level of their gunwales, the crew tied up as though to a dock, and the boys were ushered up the ramp. Looking inside, Sal felt as if he was entering fantasyland.

First, he and the boys were greeted by an equal number of dour-faced, heavily armed men-men who nevertheless were dressed in the most outlandish pimp costumes, tricked out from head to foot in garish formalwear usually reserved for Broadway musicals and Mardi Gras parades, all feathers, spangles, glitter, and glitz.

"What the hell is this?" Sal said under his breath.

Kyle replied, "Looks like a Halloween party."

Ostentatiously decorated sombreros and chaps, tuxedoes and tails, maroon top hats, Dick Tracy fedoras, fancy cowboy hats with bands of silver skulls, toreador suits in blinding colors and patterns-plush purple and green velvet with linings of ruffled silk, snow leopard and zebra patterns-striped zoot suits and bolo ties, bloodred snakeskin boots inlaid with turquoise. And bling!-massive jewel-encrusted rings and gold chains, Cartier studs, sapphire pendants belonging to the czars, priceless museum pieces from Aztec coffers or Egyptian tombs.

The men themselves were not as fancy as their couture, resembling a post-office billboard's worth of sketchy characters and ugly mugs, FBI's Most Wanted, their thick necks and bald heads marked with scars and thug tattoos. Beneath their expensive clothes and cologne they reeked of sweat and machine oil. But they were well fed, and at least they weren't dressed in pulsating Xombie flesh-for the moment Sal was grateful for any trace of civilization.

"I don't think we gonna meet the dress code," whispered Kyle, dazzled in spite of himself. He had always been vain about his appearance, shoplifting designer clothes and primping in front of the mirror so long that his brother Russell used to joke, You worse than having a sister, man. The thought of his lost brother was like a sucker punch to the gut.

"You guys always dress this way?" Sal asked.

"Pert much ever night, after work," said Voodooman.

"Why's that?" asked Todd.

"Naught else to do… and because we can. Keeps the blues away. Out here, we like to make every night a party."

Freddy asked, "There's gonna be a party?"

"Hail yes! We observe all the formalities in this organization-gotta keep up all them good old traditions. This here's Big Rock Candy Mountain! You boys ain't never been to a party till you been to a lockup hoedown. Ain't a lot of fun left in this world, but one thing us saddle pimps know how to do is party!"

Sal said, "Uh, sorry, sir, I'm not sure we're really up for a party. We're pretty beat. We lost some friends, and it's been a rough day."

"That's when you need to get likkered-up the most! But don't you fellas worry, the party ain't gonna get goin' till after sundown. You got a few hours to rest up yet."

Working up his nerve, Sal said firmly, "Well, that's just it-we were thinking we need to get back to the boat. We're way overdue, and they have to be wondering what happened to us by now. If they think we didn't make it, they might sail without us."

"Don't you worry, son-your rust bucket ain't goin' nowhere."

"It's not?"

"Hail no! We got 'em in the sack. Ain't but one way in and out of this bay, and we control the out. Trust me. Now come on, let's get you squared away."

The boys were directed to wait while the crew from the duck boat went into a clear plastic tent. Once they were inside, the enclosure was flooded with purified oxygen from a large tank, and immediately their Xombie leathers began to relax, turning pink and bloody, sagging off them like so much raw meat.

"Ohhh, sick, dude," Todd remarked under his breath.

The men effortlessly stepped free, scooping the shed hides into steel drums. Removing the limp sacks of their helmets, they revealed gleefully sweaty faces marked with numerous gang markings: scars, brands, purplish prison tattoos. Having seen the deckhands, the boys were less surprised than they would otherwise have been, no longer expecting from the men's country twang to see a bunch of redneck hillbillies. For the most part, these were ghetto warriors, pimped-up vaqueros and part-time buffalo soldiers-convicts before they were ever cowboys.

The lids were cinched down tight, and the men emerged to be hosed off, gratefully shedding layers of protective gear and sweaty hazmat coveralls.

Suddenly someone shouted, "Duck!" and Sal spun to see several wet Xombies leaping onto the ramp. They had been clinging like leeches beneath the duck boat.

He and the other boys scattered, screaming, but the men on the barge were ready. In an instant the creatures were roped, gaffed, and pinned to the deck, then their limbs and heads hewn from their bodies. The loose parts were bagged and tied off as if for some future purpose.