Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

It was a fairly open system. Any man who questioned his role was welcome to switch, but from what the boys gathered, this was a very uncommon occurrence-not everyone could handle the extreme commitment of joining the Kalis, or the radical requirements of the Skins. Easier to mop floors as someone's bitch.

The shore missions left every afternoon, a fleet of four duck boats and support vessels gathering tons of supplies and depositing them on the crane barge. At the end of a week, most of this enormous quantity of goods (whatever the barge crews didn't take themselves) would be transferred to a prearranged shore depot, where they were marked with a large, Day-Glo X and left there for pickup at the convenience of their Mogul overlords. Once the goods had been claimed, there was always a sealed package left in their place, containing shares of Mobucks and the latest news and science updates direct from Valhalla. Airmail, the Reapers called it. It was a matter of some concern to them that in recent days the airmail had mysteriously stopped… almost as peculiar as that submarine just sitting out there, ignoring its load of tribute. Why didn't the thing take its cargo and leave? Company policy strictly forbade the Reapers from contacting the ship directly (the official reason for this was that security of trade routes would be jeopardized if the different transportation branches were allowed to mingle-a tactful way of saying that the military crews refused all truck with looters and thugs), but it felt like they were all holding their breath until the sub went away. Yet Uncle Spam kept telling them that everything was under control.

Whether the Reapers believed this or not, the boys could sense tension and scuttlebutt, dark secrets on the wind-unpleasant schemes that would require their attendance whether they liked it or not.

"What about Kyle?" asked Sal.

"What about him?"

"We can't just leave without him."

"It's not like we have a choice," said Todd. "Who the hell knows what they're doing to him over there? Longer we stick around, the more likely it is that it'll be our turn to find out."

"He's probably dead," said Ray Despineau in his Eeyore-like monotone.

"Which is what we'll be, too, as soon as they contact the boat," Todd said. "It's only a matter of time before they realize we're fugitives from their precious Valhalla. I can't wait to find out whatever it is they'll do with us then. Guaranteed it'll suck."

"You guys are crazy," said Freddy, becoming more nervous by the second. "How do you think we're gonna get out of here?"

Sal looked thoughtful. "I don't think it should be too hard to escape if we do it in the early morning when they're all asleep and hungover. It's not like they keep guards posted on deck."

"They don't need guards," Freddie argued. "I've heard those outer decks gather Xombies every night-they have to mop them up every day as the first order of business."

"We can handle a couple of Xombies with the weapons they have lying around loose. The whole place is a damn armory."

Todd said, "Maybe, maybe not, but we'd wake up half the barge doing it. All it takes is one guy blowing the whistle, and you can kiss our asses good-bye-somehow I don't think they'd look kindly on us declining their hospitality, much less stealing their shit."

"So what do you suggest? Stay here?"

Freddy shook his head. For the first time in his life, he realized he had an opinion that didn't square with the dominant majority-these guys didn't have a clue what they were saying. As far as he was concerned, Kyle Hancock had been their last voice of reason, and without him, there were no clear options. "I don't know, man. I mean, even if we could escape and make it back to the boat, what is there to look forward to? Getting stuck in that dungeon until they starve us to death? Whole time I was in there, I felt like Pinocchio in the belly of the whale-I ain't down with that no more."

"Are you down with staying here and being somebody's house elf?" asked Sal. "Because that's how it works, Freddy, you know that. They talk a lot about freedom of choice, but it's all based on survival of the fittest, law of the jungle. Sure, there's no rules here as such, but haven't you noticed that there's a really strict social code? The amount of freedom you get depends on what caste you belong to. From each according to his ability, to each according to his need… just so long as you accept your rightful place in the dogpile. They look outrageous, but they're a bunch of conformists sticking to a script because that's what's worked for them up to this point, kept them alive. There are no rebels here-the real rugged individualists probably all got killed off the first week."

Freddy said, "They eat good, though."

"They do eat good. But I think if we can get back to the boat with what we now know about Xombie protection, our supply problems might be over."

"That's a big if. We don't even know if the boat's still there."

"It's there, it's gotta be there. Kranuski and Webb might be assholes, but the rest of the crew wouldn't just bail on us like that. Plus, this whole place is freaking out about something, haven't you noticed? Guarantee you it's because of the boat. Look, I say the time to move is tomorrow morning. We just act like we know what we're doing and slip out right under their noses. Anybody asks what we're doing, we say that Voodooman dude told us it was okay."

"Yeah? And what then? Jump overboard and swim back?"

"I was wondering about that myself," said Todd.

"I knew it," groaned Ray. "We might as well forget about it-we're dead."

Ignoring him, Sal replied, "I was thinking more along the lines of those water scooters they've got tied up alongside."

"Are you kidding? Steal a boat? Talk about pissing them off, plus we'll be sitting ducks in those-I've ridden a Jet Ski before, but I'm no daredevil like you. They'll chase us down and blow us out of the water before we can get five feet."

"I'm betting more like five hundred. Just enough of a head start to get out of sight."

"Out of sight of what? Dude, try a mile-the sub's at least that far. We'll have targets on our backs halfway across the bay."

"That's why we don't head downriver to the bay-we don't go to the sub at all. We run upriver, duck under the highway overpass, and break for shore using the bridge pylons as cover. Then we cut overland back to the tug docks, where we started out."

"Overland? I hate to tell you this, Sal, but aren't you forgetting something? Something that's blue and fucked-up and starts with the letter X?"

"No, that's the best part…"

The door flew open with a bang, causing the boys to jump.

"Hey, got a minute? I want to talk to you fellas."

It was Marcus Washington-the genial Reaper captain known as Voodooman. They froze at the sight of him, terrified at what he might have overheard.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked, looking around inquisitively. The night's fiesta was going strong, and he was wearing an entirely different party getup-gone was the pink suit, replaced by a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, golf slacks, and shiny Italian loafers.

"No," said Sal, as the others tried to look casual. "What's up?"

"I think you know what's up."

"What do you mean?"

He checked the booming corridor and shut the door. "It's time you dudes got out of here."

The boys were silent, the hair standing up on the back of their necks. Was this a trap?

Voodooman continued in a low voice, "Things have been cockeyed ever since Uncle Spam come back, but he and his posse ain't never taken no one prisoner before. Can't say as I like the sound of that-just rubs me the wrong way. Far as I knew, you boys was to be offered every courtesy as citizens of the U.S. of A.-ain't no call for takin' hostages or torturin' nobody. Problem is, that big old submarine of yours done got folks spooked. We don't know what it's waitin' for, and neither you or Uncle Spam done give us a straight answer. Long as it sits there, we're sewed up tight in this river. I don't think El Dopa's got a damn clue what he's doin' with y'all-he's just tryin' to cover his butt.