Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Stooping over the major's mangled body, Uri Miska said, "Silly to steal what is freely given." He leaned close, whispering into the other's ear.

Barely alive, Bendis nodded frantically, desperate to listen, to cooperate, until his face suddenly contorted in a violent spasm. Something peculiar was going on inside his ear canal: a long snakelike thing had emerged from Miska's mouth and was burrowing its way down his eustachian tube, cutting off Bendis's airway and patching his circulatory system to Miska's. A joint umbilical cord, mixing blue blood with red.

In a moment, it was done.

Standing up, Miska wiped his mouth and went to find the boy. Bobby Rubio was unharmed, sitting at the curb with a dreamy expression-the rope still around his neck. Miska took it off and led him down to the waterfront promenade under the mall. The stilted dance continued behind them, the screams occasionally punctuated with an explosion or random crackle of gunfire.

There were fires on the river; some fleeing sentry had lit the braziers. Others would come now that the message was out: Miska Was Here.

"What's that?" the boy asked.

"WaterFire," the Blue Man said.

There was an unusual boat there-a long black gondola. Taking the boy down to the dock, Miska helped him aboard and told him to lie low. Then he untied the line and pushed the boat in the direction of the current.

"Aren't you coming?" Bobby cried, sitting up.

"I can't," Miska said. "I'm sorry."

"What am I supposed to do?"

As the boat slipped out of sight beneath a low bridge, the old man held up his arm and called back, "Go forth and multiply."

"Attention Virginia-class submarine. This is a U.S. naval vessel under the command of Admiral Harvey Coombs. Please acknowledge."

There was a long pause. Then a sharp, hostile voice: "What is your vessel's call sign?"

"We have no call sign. This is a decommissioned ship salvaged for an emergency mission, code name SPAM. We have no official existence, our orders are classified, and we are operating under conditions of strict radio silence. This communication is a breach of operational security, so let's keep it short: If you represent the interests of the United States of America, then we are here to offer whatever assistance and support you may require."

There was no answer for long minutes, just a quiet wash of static.

Then the voice said, "You guys got any food over there?"

"We've got whatever you need," said Coombs. "Come and get it."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus."