Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

"Fact is, some of us been getting real tired of sending all these goods up north, wishin' we could go our own way. Can't see as how we even need Uncle Spam all that much anymore. These last couple weeks have proved we can get along perfectly well by ourselves. Sure, we needed a leg up at first, but lately it's gettin' so that we're doing it by habit rather than for any actual ree-ward. Maybe there's others feel the same on that submarine of your'n."

"There are. We've told you everything we know," Sal said.

"Maybe you have, maybe you ain't-point is I don't give a tinker's damn. I think as long as we hold you boys, we're just draggin' this thing out, whatever it is. Obviously, your people won't leave without you, which means we gotta send you back, pronto. You all are about the same age my sons woulda been, and it ain't right to hold you against your will. This ain't no fuckin' jailhouse strike. You got a right to your freedom, same as us."

The boys nodded hopefully, hearts thrumming.

"Here's my problem: I can't let you go without authority from either El Dopa or the major hisself, and they ain't talkin'. So here's what I'm gonna do…"

The four boys left their quarters before dawn and went down the puke-smelling corridor to the Coca-Cola van, where they fortified themselves with caffeine and sugar, then proceeded to the ceiling hatch at the end. There was a thick plywood cap screwed on it, and they quickly removed the wing nuts, trying to be as quiet as possible as they opened the lid.

Dim pinkish light came in, along with cool morning air that smelled like low tide and lilacs-a smell oddly like the funeral parlor where Sal's mother had been shown. The boys climbed single file onto the roof of the first tier, taking with them the rolled-up rope ladder to access the outside deck of the barge. Before lowering it, they scanned the area for Xombies. They could only see one side, but it looked clear. Voodooman had promised them it would be.

Every one of them was well armed. Under cover of the party last night, Marcus Washington had crept around the deserted passageways and empty dorms, taking anything that he thought might be of use to the boys, returning with the goods as well as detailed instructions. After he was gone, they smoked cigars and got plastered on peppermint schnapps, tearfully saying their good-byes to each other and the world-it was an emotional night, and quite likely their last.

Now they all had throbbing headaches, dry mouths, and a revolting aftertaste-as well as four samurai swords, three fire axes, two machetes, a couple of crowbars, and two military-grade Taser weapons of Israeli manufacture. These were all items that had just been lying around loose amid mounds of other clutter, so Voodooman wasn't expecting the loss to be immediately noticed. For that matter, he could have given them anything from machine guns to light artillery to rocket-propelled grenades… except that it was wiser if they didn't wake up the whole barge.

Lowering themselves to the deck, the four boys crept to the bow ramp, where they had first come on board. Everything was in deep shadow, and they moved carefully to avoid tripping over anything. There was a lot of equipment here, stuff for the shore patrols, but they were mainly interested in one particular item: the oxygen tent.

There it was, deflated, heaped against the wall like a tarp-covered pile of junk. Racks of full-body coveralls and other protective gear were set out to dry, stinking of bleach. A large air tank was connected to the tent's gasket, and Sal cautiously opened the valve by increments. It hissed, but hopefully not loudly enough to be noticed.

For a moment nothing happened, and Todd said, "Turn it up some more," but Sal said, "Wait." Creases in the clear vinyl began to pop out as the tent inflated.

It was all too reminiscent of the inflatable fortress of the Moguls-the bubble of bloated excess that was Valhalla-swelling bigger and bigger like a physical manifestation of the boys' growing anxiety.

Swallowing his fear, Sal said, "Ray, Freddy, scope out the boats down there, will you? Make sure Voodooman cut the wires, and we can get down without any hassle. While we're waiting, we should also put on these coveralls."

"Fuck that," said Freddy. "They'll mess up the crease on my new threads."

"So will the Xombie that kills your ass."

Freddy and Ray reluctantly complied, grumbling that they were digging themselves a deeper and deeper hole. They still weren't sure that this wasn't just an elaborate trap. But they were committed now, there was no backing out. If it wasn't quite the first daring escape they had ever taken part in (that would have to be the hijacking of the submarine, followed by the exodus from Thule), it was by far the most nerve-wracking. Not to mention they felt stupid in hooded plastic jumpsuits.

Returning, Freddy said breathlessly, "Boats are no problem-the keys are in the ignition, just like he said. Maybe we should forget this and just take one now."

"No, you said it yourself: They'll blow us out of the water. Our only chance is a fast dash to shore before they can get their bearings."

"Well, you look like a bunch of Oompa-Loompas."

Todd tossed him a suit. "Join the club."

"What about this stuff?" asked Ray, glumly referring to all the strange protective equipment littering the deck: wire helmets resembling weird birdcages, shoulder and knee pads, chest and back plates, gauntlets made of light, flexible steel mesh.

"We have to put that on, too. And be quick-sun's coming up."

"Everything? We'll barely be able to move in all that junk."

"Everything. You heard Voodooman-if they do it, we do it."

They covered themselves with mesh armor from head to toe, checking each other over and cinching hard-to-reach straps. Fortunately, most of the fastenings were Velcro and very simple to figure out. Inflating the tent proceeded apace, until at last the thing stood rigid before them, a lot bigger than they remembered-big as a house. It looked like one of those bouncy kiddy rooms at the fair.

Sal shut off the valve, and they crowded through the air lock, stiff and clumsy as astronauts. It smelled like plastic inside, like a new beach ball. The steel drums were all on a wooden pallet in the center of the main chamber, and beside them was a compressor and a bundle of tall gas cylinders marked OXYGEN-FLAMMABLE-DO NOT EXPOSE TO OPEN FLAME.

With trepidation, the boys examined the sturdy lid clamps on the barrels.

"You sure you wanna try this?" asked Todd.

"No," said Freddy.

"This is stupid," said Ray. "We're all gonna die."

"Shut up," Sal said. "It's the only way. Come on, you saw how they did it."

"Go ahead, then."

Using a crowbar as a lever, Sal sprang the first clamp… then the second. The lid was free. As the other boys stood well back, he worked the crowbar's tip under the lid and prized it off.

Gross.

Underneath was a slimy mass of naked flesh, looking for all the world like raw turkey skin, except there was too much of it-a whole barrelful. It was bluish gray, shot through with tiny capillaries of a brighter, almost violet hue. The flesh was wrinkly as wet laundry, and even showed a zipperlike seam where two patches had been stapled together. It made Sal sick to look at it, queasy; his eyes were playing tricks, making the Xombie flesh appear to be bulging upward, swelling like rising dough. Heaving toward him.

"Shit, man, look out!" Todd shouted, knocking Sal backward as a great flap of translucent flesh fanned up out of the barrel like a huge sail. Falling in slow motion, Sal was reminded of a magic trick he had learned as a kid-the scarf from the hat that just keeps coming and coming. Todd dove clear as the thing batted wildly in the air, a gigantic webbed hand seeking something to grab, a six-foot-tall bat wing that even made a weird chittering noise.