Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

It was Todd. Todd was coming for him.

Sal took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took a running leap over the railing.

He was just off his feet when something hooked him around the arm and neck and yanked him backward, upward, carrying him into the rope canopy. A cold, hard cheek pressed against his, and a sardonic skull's mouth lined with black teeth whispered in his ear:

"Haven't you always wondered what it would be like?"

Choking, trying to break free, Sal found his free arm tangling with the disordered mass of flesh and bone that was Uncle Spam's lower body. Its branching, animated nest of gristle was clinging to the overhanging netting like a spider to its web, upper torso dangling, arms carrying the boy as it scrambled up toward its lair in the radio shack.

Sal's own strength was insufficient but that of his Xombie oversuit more than made up the difference: It flexed violently, every fiber rolling like a fleshy wave-a wave comprised of individual Maenad cells popping upward like coral polyps, or spectators in a microscopic football stadium. Starting at Sal's feet, it gained force as it rose to his neck, finally converging to whipcrack against Uncle Spam's clutching arms. The result was explosive, breaking the headlock and dropping Sal's body to the top deck.

Stunned, he tumbled, got up, tried to run-and dove straight into the ropes. Something scuttled toward him, knocking him down, sitting on him like a ton of rank-smelling wet kindling. Pinned, Sal fumbled in his utility bag for the butane torch, then shoved his arm deep inside the chomping, slimy maw and flicked it on. With a bleating sound, the crushing weight vanished.

He barely had time to think, What the fuck is it? when Uncle Spam came for him again. Sal had no peripheral vision in his helmet, but he saw the lanterns bob as the thing approached, and his mind raced for what to do. Jump?-Lulu and Kyle were on the patio just below; if he twisted his ankle, they'd have him.

At the last second, he grabbed the metal basket of the barge-to-barge traverse, freed its anchor hook, and flung himself out into space. At the same instant, the monster pounced on his back, twanging the cable and doubling Sal's downward acceleration.

It was a long, fast glide, their combined weight causing the braided wire to sag steeply, the basket's steel coasters screaming from the strain. "Get off!" Sal shouted, fighting as best he could while hanging on by his arms. It wasn't fair: The nightmarish creature at his back had all the advantage. It was like a big, ghastly tick with a human head, interchangeably using its hands or the meat hooks of its grisly undercarriage to hang on and attack. If not for the protection of Sal's Xombie suit, he would have been dead already.

But suit or no suit, the thing was winning. In free fall, the boy whipped his head from side to side, trying to protect his airway as bunches of fluttery, slippery claws tore the Xombie flesh from his face mask and began punching through the wire mesh. Elsewhere, he could feel them stripping him, sharp pincers worming between the seams, burrowing into his tough blue leather to seek out the warm skin underneath.

The shuttle came to rest at the belly of the cable-the exact midpoint of the hundred-yard span between the barges, less than twenty feet above the water. Swirling smoke from the burning freight barge wafted across, choking him. Nowhere left to go, neither forward nor back.

Sensing Sal's hopelessness, the hideous mouth wheedled in his ear. "Just relax. There is no need to suffer any longer. Let go, and you can join your friends."

Let go? Letting out a shuddering, sobbing laugh, Sal said, "Okay." He let go with one hand, swinging in space, and with his free hand reached for the large, three-pronged grappling hook used to secure the basket.

"Nice hanging with you," he said, and jammed the hook's barbed points deep into the corded tendons of Uncle Spam's neck, throwing his full weight on it and dangling there. The monster recoiled, furiously grappling with the hook and chain.

Sal let go.

Shed of his weight, cable and basket jounced upward, catapulting Uncle Spam away like a rubber tarantula on a string.

Hitting the water, Sal plunged deep. Icy salt water dashed him in the face, flooding his mask but otherwise leaving him dry inside. The Xombie flesh contracted instantly, clamping tight and creating a waterproof seal over most of his body. Except for a threadlike trickle down his back, Sal was quite warm although completely unable to see, hear, or breathe.

The air trapped in his clothing made him fairly buoyant, popping him back to the surface with a minimum of effort. Athlete though he was, he had never been a tremendous swimmer. As a young child, he had taken swimming lessons at the YMCA-that was the extent of it.

Shaking the water out of his mask, the boy looked around for some sign of what to do next. His range of vision was not good. The two barges seemed very far away, as did the peaceful-looking green banks of the river. Large things were swirling around his legs, but they didn't touch him.

That leak was starting to worry him, however. The suit had been shredded back there in the fight and couldn't close properly. Freezing-cold water was pooling in his boots, making his toes numb, but worse than the cold was the weight-suddenly he was having to tread water just to keep his head up. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. On top of that, he could feel the pull of the tide; if he didn't figure out what to do pretty quick, he was going to drift around the point and out into the vastness of Narragansett Bay. While that might get him closer to the submarine, it would also put him far from shore. He'd never make it back alive.

I'm sinking.

Sal's legs were flooded halfway up to his calves now, dragging on him like a pair of loaded buckets. The effort required to stay afloat was becoming exhausting; if he stopped paddling for even a second, he would drop straight to the bottom and join all the others down there. Were his friends down there, too? Maybe looking up at him from the dusky green riverbed? He could hear Todd's voice: I got you, dude…

Without meaning to, Sal let up on his strokes, and water sloshed into his mouth. Swallowing a big gulp of brine, he vomited in his mask. No! Todd was up above, reaching down from his Jet Ski, trying to get ahold of Sal's helmet.

Fighting not to choke, unable to believe he was drowning, Sal flailed for a breath of pure air so he could keep up the struggle for just two more seconds-two seconds! That was all Todd needed. But then all of a sudden it was too much, everything against them, scales overbalancing like the pot of beans in that game he and his mom used to play before she died, and Sal went under.

"You have reached the offices of Mogul Research Associates. The offices are now closed. If you know your party's extension, please enter it now and we will transfer you…"

"… You have reached the office of Dr. Alice Langhorne. Please leave a message after the beep."

"Alice, pick up. It's Chandra Stevens."

"Chandra-what is it?"

"Sorry to call you so late, but I thought you should know we just got the first test results back."

"Go ahead-I'm listening."

"They're positive."

"Which ones?"

"All of them."

"Even-?"

"Yes. It's definitely in the environment, and spreading. You were right. We're gonna have to call in the CDC before someone else does."

"Now slow down. First, you know as well as I do that it's benign-Benign by Design, remember? Second, it has a limited number of generations. It can't replicate forever, and its biological half-life is only a few more months. It will inevitably deteriorate."

"But not before it contaminates the entire biosphere. Which it will soon if it's already in the water table, colonizing iron-and if it's already in us."