Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

"I think we have to accept that there's nothing we or anyone else can do to prevent that."

"We can go to the CDC."

"What good would that do? Just cause a big investigation and a lot of hand-wringing. It won't change anything. Ultimately, this thing just has to run itself out."

"You have reached the home of Dr. Uri Miska. Dr. Miska is not available right now to take your call, but if you leave your name and number, he will get…"

"Hello?"

"Dr. Miska, it's me."

"Hello, Alice. What a pleasant surprise. I was just dozing on the couch, watching Ron Popeil demonstrate his rotisserie oven and chanting 'Set It and Forget It' with the studio audience. It was like a sutra. If you're ever suffering from stress-based insomnia, I recommend it."

"I will, Professor. But Dr. Stevens just called me with some disturbing information, and I thought you should know right away."

"Okay, but first let me tell you my theory of infomercials. Here it is, the secret: You know why infomercials are so pleasant to watch? Why they draw you in? Because there are no commercials!"

"That's good, thank you, but please listen: The ASR has escaped. Multiple independent field tests have confirmed it's in ferrous subsoil and spreading like wildfire through groundwater."

"Any idea how the agent could have been released?"

"Not yet. At the moment we're playing catch-up."

"Your people haven't spoken to anyone else about this? The press? The CDC?"

"No."

"That's good. Don't. Because how we deal with this now will entirely determine its public importance. Do you remember the hullabaloo about genetically modified corn finding its way into the marketplace? No one else does, either. Realistically, this a nonproblem, an arcane scientific event of no interest to anyone, which has been anticipated with adequate safeguards. Of course we will track its progress, but I am sure it will eventually resolve itself if we just don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill, yes?"

"That's what I explained to Dr. Stevens."

"Wonderful. Beautiful. So what are you doing calling my house in the middle of the night? Is this an emergency?"

"No. Sorry to bother you, Professor."

"That's all right, that's all right. It's not the end of the world." -Transcript #874-7732, The Maenad Project El Dopa stood on the plunging bridge of his command yacht, a forty-eight-foot Chris Craft Roamer with an aluminum hull and all-mahogany interiors, and surveyed his armada.

Surrounding him were sixty other vessels, the major portion of which was a fleet of thirty-six Williard 10M Utility Boats, taken from the Navy yard in Mobile. These were sturdy open boats, packed to the beams with an assault force of nearly a thousand heavily armed and armored Reapers, all hunkered under tarps. The rest of the convoy, acting as a screen, was an assortment of Coast Guard cutters, various trawlers and pleasure cruisers, four amphibious trucks, two tugs, and a host of smaller craft. They were all flying white flags.

Under cover of heavy smoke from the gutted crane barge, this armada streamed from the mouth of the Seekonk River and banked right, facing the sunset. The uppermost reach of Narragansett Bay spread out before them, bright as a sea of new pennies. To the right was downtown Providence; to the left, tank farms and freight terminals, then the long passage to the Atlantic.

Dominating the view was an ominous black silhouette: the submarine. There was certainly no missing it, that long steel island with its winged tower rising above like a gigantic headstone.

As they neared it, a voice squawked from loudspeakers on the lead Coast Guard vessel:

There was no reply, no sign of anyone having heard, and no time to repeat the message-they were already there.

Covered by sharpshooters and several deck-mounted Gatling guns, the Williards swept in from the submarine's stern, splitting into two groups and streaming up both sides of its featureless black hull. Weighted lines were heaved across the jettylike expanse, fastening the boats on one side to those opposite. When the hawsers were drawn tight, the fleet closed on the sub's flanks like a row of stitches. It reminded El Dopa of a cartoon he had once seen of Gulliver's Travels, where tiny people shot lines over an unconscious giant's limbs to secure them. It was a tricky operation: Without its cleats in place, the submarine was a uniquely featureless object, offering nothing to tie up to and no good purchase on its round sides for any kind of landing. El Dopa was impressed with his men's ingenuity; though few of them had much previous experience handling boats, they had all become quite adept sailors over the past four months.

Now the boatmen swarmed from their vessels, whooping and hollering as they rappelled onto the sub. They all wore the cowboy boots, weirdly decorated helmets, and body armor that distinguished them not only as Reapers but as the elite Hopalong Phalanx, whose new commander, General Righteous Weeks, was eager to prove himself.

Watching from a safe distance, El Dopa said to his second, "They're aboard." He picked up the microphone of his marine radio, and announced, "Attention submarine, I need you folks to listen to me. We don't have much time, so I ask for your full attention. You are under attack. Those sounds you hear are authorized representatives of the People's Expedition of the New United States taking over your ship. We demand your surrender, and will sink you if you don't immediately comply. Trust me, we are capable of doing what we say. If you cooperate, I promise no one will be harmed-you are worth more to us alive than dead; otherwise, we wouldn't bother doing what we're doing. With that in mind, perhaps we can negotiate some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement. Work together. On the other hand, if you refuse to surrender, you simply make yourselves and your vessel useless to us, and we will take you out. So I'm telling you to prepare yourselves for whatever is about to happen. It's up to you. Don't be afraid-it's time we all made our peace with eternity. You have one minute to decide."

Righteous Weeks stood on the deck of the submarine and wondered what to do next. So far it had been much too easy-not a single shot had been fired. Could it be a trap of some kind? Every inch of the sub's five-hundred-foot deck was occupied by his men now, right up to the top of the sail, so he didn't think there was any hiding place from which they could be ambushed. He knew that the harbor was too shallow for the monster to submerge. But he was no expert on submarines, nor were any of his men. He had certainly never seen one this big before, much less set foot on it, so he was very tense. Not for the first time, he regretted the loss of his friend Marcus. Voodooman knew about shit like this.

The leader of the few remaining Kalis came over, the one called Betty Boom, and asked him, "Where do you want us to set the charges?" They had a boatload of plastic explosives and radio detonators, courtesy of Uncle Spam.

"Anywhere-I can't see as it matters much."

"It does, though. I've done a lot of welding, and this HY80 steel is a bitch. Blowing any kind of meaningful hole in this mother is going to take everything we've got."

"Then use everything you've got."

It helped to see that someone had defied and defiled the sub already, laying claim like dogs marking their territory, undermining its awesome power with some choice graffiti. The rubberized black deck and conning tower had been tagged like the sides of a subway train: XOMBOYZ, NUBZ, LULU, the classic skull and crossbones.

"Looks like pirates already been to work on this thing," Weeks said.

His second-in-command, Grover Stix, laughed, "Yeah, somebody done beat us to it."