Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

"I'd avoid doing any shooting in here," Coombs said. "That's the auxiliary machinery room-we call it the Snake Pit. There are a few thousand gallons of reserve diesel in that tank, and those torpedoes up there run on some nasty flammable stuff. Not to mention the explosive warheads themselves."

The Reapers ventured forward, pointing their weapons down the racks of deadly green cylinders until all their sonar beams converged on something odd at the end of the aisle: several interlocking metal cases the size of coffins, finished matte black and plastered with military inspection certificates. Their lids were open and all the shelves pulled out, as if someone had recently been raiding their contents.

"Where they at?" Righteous demanded.

"They're gone," Coombs said, peering myopically through the haze. "You see those cases? Those are for diving gear-SEAL gear. It was part of our SPAM manifest. Stealth rebreathers, assault weapons, night-vision scopes, satellite uplinks, laser range finders, cameras, cadmium battery packs, covert reconnaissance and communication equipment. Also limpet mines and all kinds of ordnance, you name it."

The Reapers listened like a rapt tribe of Neanderthals to this recitation of state-of-the-art commando stuff: SEAL gear for a SEAL mission that was as cold and dead as every conflict of the old world, relics of an extinct civilization. The very definition of lost treasure in that almost all of it was missing-most frustratingly the guns and ammo.

Popping a skull-like diving mask out of its foam cradle, Harvey Coombs said, "See? Do-it-yourself SEAL team. Just add water."

"Where'd they go?"

"Outside." Coombs indicated the four chrome hatches. "Through these tubes."

"What the fuck they doing out there?"

"Any number of things. Repairs, reconnaissance… underwater demolition. We have a few master divers on board who are qualified to work with underwater munitions, so-"

"Munitions? Shit. Grover, tell Betty Boom to keep an eye out for fuckin' frogmen. Ain't better be no Navy SEALS out there, or they gonna be dead SEALS. You, too."

"Wait a minute," said Coombs, gesturing for silence. There was a peculiar squeaking sound coming from within the torpedo tubes.

"What's that?" asked Weeks.

"They're back."

"What? Back?"

"Ssh!" said Coombs. "You hear that? Someone's in there now-that's why the tubes were drained. Probably stuck waiting for whoever is supposed to let them back aboard."

The Reapers leveled their weapons. Righteous Weeks said, "Go ahead and open them doors."

"Only if you give me your word not to harm anyone," Coombs said.

"Open the doors right now, or I'll geld you like a motherfuckin' bull calf! Now do it!"

After a moment's hesitation, Coombs released the four breech doors, starting with starboard tubes one and three, then moving across to tubes two and four. The tubes were at a sideways angle and pitch-dark inside, making it hard to see down their full length.

Righteous Weeks shouted, "All right, everybody out! Don't try any-"

He was cut short by a flesh bomb, an avalanche of briny-cold meat: four twenty-foot tubes of solid-packed offal tumbling into the chamber as if from a grisly cornucopia. Guts! Guts amok! The light strobed with hysterical gunfire as this slippery living bouillabaisse of human parts disgorged onto the floor.

In the tight space, there was nowhere to go, and the front ranks of Reapers were instantly overwhelmed by the frenzied host. Immune to terror or surprise, the men didn't panic but had no defense against such an amorphous attack-a hellish migration of clawing, grasping morgue refuse that clung on and climbed their bodies to cover their masks and clamp tight around their throats. Guns were no good at all. As the first men were engulfed, those nearer the door recognized that they had a brief opportunity to get the hell out of there, cut their losses. And they didn't hesitate-they knew they wouldn't get another chance. The problem was all the guys in the way.

Fighting his way through the pileup, Righteous Weeks realized that he had made a serious mistake bringing so many men down here. Dragging the woman, he barely managed to get out the door before it was shut against the heinous enemy, then he joined the fight to seal it up against other poor fools still trying to jam through. There was no choice: Once this shit got loose, there would be no stopping it.

Grover Stix was buzzing with the thrill of being alive. Though he had been right in the thick of the nightmarish attack, his slight build gave him an advantage over men in luckier spots. With the wave of slurry sweeping toward them, he leaped atop the torpedo racks and shinnied down the tight space right over the others. In a second, he was out the door and helping Righteous close it.

As the door clamped shut, he had a last glimpse of that Navy man, Coombs, standing silent and seemingly calm amid shuddering webs and fronds of viscera.

As soon as the valve was dogged tight, Weeks turned and slapped the woman across the face with his shotgun. She fell back against the wall, banging her head.

"What the fuck was that all about, motherfucker?" Righteous demanded. "What kinda shit you tryin' to pull on us?"

"I beg your pardon," she said, adjusting her cracked oxygen mask. "I never promised you a rose garden."

Before Righteous could hit her again, the big pressure door in the amidships bulkhead clanked open, revealing a hazy black void-the impenetrable vastness of the Big Room.

"What's down there?" Weeks demanded.

Alice smiled and replied, "The rest of the boat."

There was no movement within the lightless depths aft. Through the men's sonic goggles the view had that strobing, stilted quality of a convenience-store security camera. Suddenly, out of a side cranny, the blurred shape of a little boy appeared and dashed through the doorway.

"Hey, stop him!" yelled Weeks, shining his echolocator on the kid's skinny back just as he vanished from view. "Who was that?"

"Bobby Rubio," Alice said. "Kid we picked up when we first got here. I thought maybe he belonged to you."

"Not hardly."

Pondering the situation, the Reapers considered their options:

Grover Stix offered, "I say we clear outta here and drop a thermite canister down the hole. Fuck this shit."

"Yeah," said another man. "What do we need with a submarine anyway? It's like a damn dungeon down here. I like to be in the open, or at least somewhere with a window."

"Damn straight-this thing's worse than being back in the hole."

"Now hold off," said Righteous. "We didn't just risk our necks and sacrifice twenty good men so we could pussy out at the last minute. This is an opportunity we ain't likely to ever get again-a chance to declare our independence. Hell, boys, we already in possession of this shitcan; we own it, lock, stock, and barrel, and now you want to queer the whole deal because of a little fresh meat? Just when we got 'em in a sack? We're holding the strong hand here; it would be a shame to cut and run when we're this close to winning the pot. We got the game, we got the numbers, and we got the grit-now we just got to see their bluff."

Without waiting for the others, he boldly walked down the short passageway and ducked through the aft hatch. Once inside, Weeks found himself staring up at a room as big and cold as his old cellblock back in Huntsville. He couldn't see much beyond thirty feet-the sonar imager, designed for close-range operation, dissolved into gray murk-but from the hollow sound he could tell it was a very big space. As in the rest of the sub, there was a jungle of pipes and wiring, but here there were no walls or ceiling to contain them, just a steel-grated pier extending into darkness and a dim jumble of machines in the gully below.

The others followed him in, voices hushed as if entering a church. Trying to demystify the place, Righteous rummaged in his pockets until he found something to throw-the first silver dollar he had ever plucked from between the horns of an angry bull. Fuck it, he thought, and chucked it high up into the air, smiling as it dinged off the roof, bounced down invisible ledges, rolled, and went still. He was about to say, Y'all might as well get comfortable-I don't go nowhere without my lucky dollar, when something small and heavy struck him in the forehead. His lucky coin!