Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Desperately hopeful, Freddy said, "You can control them?"

"It's the feminine mystique, what can I say."

"But you're not a real woman," Kyle said contemptuously.

"Shh!-don't tell anybody."

"Then how come you let them do you like this?"

"Do me? Who's doing who? Listen and listen good: I'm not some punk gal-boy from the joint, I'm a straight-up K-Thug Original, a Kali Dolly after the Black One herself. Old school, baby-the oldest. In case you hadn't noticed, women are synonymous with scary shit nowadays, and us Tarbabies are the scariest motherfuckers of all. Put on this uniform, and it's like the red on a black widow spider: Nobody better fuck with you, not unless they want to take on the whole Dollhouse."

Sal asked, "I don't understand. What are you supposed to be?"

"I told you: Kali-goddess of destruction. Mother of the Thug cult. That's where the word comes from, son."

"Like Lassie, you mean?" Freddy asked.

"Not collie, stupid," said Todd. "Kali-K-A-L-I."

"How'd you guys come up with this?" Kyle asked.

"Originally some of us started dressing in drag because Major Bendis told us it might act as camouflage against the Harpies. Didn't work, but it gave us a certain social clout, which was nice, and also a sense of power-fighting fire with fire. As anti-X defenses improved, we incorporated them, so that we're running pretty state-of-the-art right now. Those bulky skinsuits the Reapers wear are old technology, strictly 1.0, but they had trouble enough getting used to that; they're not about to change. The Kali thing came after-it was El Dopa's vision, his way of unifying us."

"So you guys believe in all this?"

"Ain't a matter of belief, honey-it's pure survival. Rule number one is that the best defense is to protect your airway, don't give 'em an opening, so face masks are a no-brainer. We started with hockey masks, but learned pretty quick that Harpies play rough; a few straps are no deterrent. So some of us volunteered to make the mask permanent."

"Permanent?" The boys' hackles went up.

"Absolutely. Drill a few anchor bolts in the back of your head, nothing to it. Valhalla sent us kits with all the instructions. Really, everybody should do it-it's a matter of public safety. But try getting a lot of these guys to agree on anything, much less wearing a muzzle. That's the problem with democracy. Likewise, not everybody can stand to cover themselves with ichor. It sticks permanent, but there's no better repellent."

"Ichor? You mean that body paint?"

"It's not paint. It's not ink, either. It's blood-Harpy blood."

The boys got their drinks-huge flaming rum cocktails that looked inordinately delicious. Under pressure to keep things polite, they guzzled the fruity concoctions and immediately got a pleasant buzz. More rounds of drinks arrived, and with the alcohol came relief from worry. Feeling safer, they began to accept the finger food that was being passed around: enormous trays of oily pickled peppers, sausages, meats and cheeses, tinned cookies and fruit-cake. Some of them also accepted smokes from a bounty of hand-rolled cigarettes, though Sal bitched about this. Meanwhile, the drinks kept coming. Helpful people guided them to truckloads of designer clothing, amazing stuff, and in vited them to take anything they wanted. There was a curtained nook for changing, and the boys gratefully shed the filthy clothes they had been wearing for months and replaced them with whole new wardrobes of exotic finery.

Modeling a Matsuda jacket, Kyle said tearfully, "Dude, I have been hurting for some phat threads." He emerged to great applause.

"I think I'm wasted," burped Freddy, swaying a little.

"Yeah," Sal said, head swimming. He was breaking out in cold sweats. "We gotta get out of here."

"No way, man," slurred Kyle. "I ain't nearly done."

"Me neither," said Freddy.

"Yes you are. We gotta go while we can still walk."

Kyle turned on him. "Fuck you, Sal, fuck you. You ain't tellin' me what to do. Don't you fuckin' lay hands on me, bitch. This ain't the fuckin' boat-ain't nobody gonna tell me what to do. I had enough."

"You've had enough all right," Sal said. The men around them were starting to take an interest, smirking. He tried to nudge Kyle along, whispering, "Don't do this, man. Not now, not here."

"No! I said no! You got my brother killed-I don't know why we ever listened to you in the first place. You can have that fuckin' submarine, I'm stayin' right here. I like it better here."

Suddenly all the attention shifted away from them to a commotion nearby, an explosion of shouting and cheering. Sal was trying to use the diversion to usher the others out of the room, when Todd said, "It's Lulu."

Freddy stopped. "Lulu? Where?"

Ray mumbled, "They got her nailed to a board."

"They can have her," Sal said. "Come on!"

"I thought you dug her."

"Maybe when she was alive. Shut up and move!"

Across the room, Sal could see several men carrying an X-shaped wooden frame through the crowd, stirring up a hornet's nest of excitement. There was a naked blue body affixed to the planks-Lulu's body. She had a jeweled tiara jammed onto her head. Groping hands swarmed over her as she passed.

Sal's guts churned. He had gotten off to a bad start with Lulu Pangloss, refusing to acknowledge her authority over the boys on the boat-who did she think she was?-and then holding her at least partially responsible for everything that had happened since, including the death of his father. But in his heart of hearts Sal knew that Lulu was just a convenient target: The Last Girl on Earth. He resented her because it was safer than admitting he might like her-that would have been too pathetically hopeless, joining her goofy clique of admirers. So he had avoided her… and thereby avoided her fate.

Craning to see, Todd said, "What the hell are they doing with her?"

"I'm not sure I want to know," Sal replied, running out of steam. The alcohol was starting to really hit hard now, and he could barely see straight.

The boys stopped their unsteady flight, sensing that they were no longer the main attraction. As they watched, the men laid Lulu on the floor and were pushing back the clamoring mob.

"Back off!" a huge man yelled, firing a pistol into the air. He was wearing a wizard's outfit, complete with pointed hat. "You'll all get your chance!" He held up a roll of tickets and began handing them out. "One to a customer! Everybody gets one who wants one! Pass 'em around!" One of the tickets filtered back to the boys. It was numbered and looked like an ordinary raffle ticket.

Lulu still looked dead, or perhaps unconscious; in any case she seemed very small and harmless, her pale blue skin luminous as Krishna, with the black crescent of her forehead scar making a sleeping third eye-the antithesis of a raving, feral Xombie. She looked like a fairy princess. Still, the men weren't taking chances: They had nailed her down good and sewn her mouth shut to prevent any possibility of the dreaded Xombie kiss.

Now the wizard mounted the stage, and said, "Gents, we've all seen this little sleeping beauty since she come in this evening. Some of you been wondering why she's so meek and mild. How come she looks like a china doll instead of a bat-faced freak like all the others? The answer is, she ain't no ordinary Harpy. She's special. We found her in Miska's hidey-hole, and I got it on good authority that she's had a touch of his secret dope. She been living in harmony with regular folks, crowded together in a damn submarine, and they're none the worse for it. Look at those boys over yonder-they're the proof! Out riding bikes in the world as if they got some special gift. They'll tell you that just today she was out fetching kindling with them like a good Girl Scout. Point is, she ain't neither dead nor alive, but she's the best of both worlds… at least for our purposes."