Walter Greatshell - Apocalypse blues

Heading down a grassy slope, we descended into gloom, with pale, unlit buildings rising like sunken ships out of the fog and our only illumination the haloed caution lights of the Sallie. Smells of seaweed, tar, and diesel exhaust mingled in the air. It was a strange, ghostly parade all right, with the Sallie its unadorned float.

"What's it like out there?" asked a boy to my left. He was the one in the chipmunk costume, and was carrying its head under his arm. It was a blue-collar chipmunk, I noticed, with work boots, protective goggles, and a plush hard hat. From the boy's intensity, I realized he meant the outside world.

The question set me off again, and I found it very hard to reply. Eyes dribbling tears, it was all I could do to shrug, turning away to wipe my face on my puffy sleeve.

"That's pretty much what I figured," he said bitterly. "How did you get through?"

I wasn't going to get into it. "Ask him. Where are we going?"

Before he could answer, another boy said, "You'd know if you belonged here."

"Don't talk to her-she's a freak," said someone else.

"You see any other women with us? That's 'cause they were quarantined. We had to leave 'em behind-"

"Sisters, mothers… all of them."

"-all gone, and you think you comin'? Uh-uh."

"Wait a minute," I said, trying to stem the hostility, "I didn't ask to come here. I'm just along for the ride."

This was the wrong thing to say. The reaction was so vehement that some of the adults cast puzzled and annoyed looks our way. Frankly, I would have appreciated any adult intervention, but the grown-ups were deeply engrossed in heated business of their own. I resented Cowper for letting himself be monopolized this way.

We passed through an open gate and entered a field of massive rusty cylinders, large as redwood trunks. Above them, disappearing into the fog, loomed a huge inert crane, a skeletal Godzilla guarding her eggs. The Sallie stopped, and with it the abuse directed at me. Everyone's attention was suddenly focused on something down the road, some kind of winged black monolith with giraffe-speckled antennae sprouting from its crest.

"Is that what I think it is?" I asked. No one replied.

It was a very, very big submarine.

As if dismissed from school, the boys broke formation and surged toward the sub. I was swept along in the rush, taking comfort in being momentarily ignored, lost in the crowd. Albemarle was yelling, "Hey! Hey! Wait!" but it wasn't until the shooting started that we all stopped short.

There was a bright spike of automatic-weapons fire from the vicinity of the submarine. I couldn't see much, caught in the sudden pileup, but I could hear an amplified voice bellow, "HALT. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA. WE ARE AUTHORIZED TO USE DEADLY FORCE, AND WILL NOT HESITATE TO DO SO UNLESS YOU TURN BACK NOW. LEAVE AT ONCE." As the voice spoke, a harsh spotlight cleaved the mist, probing us like a boy stirring ants with a stick.

People fell back behind the Sallie or jammed into the shadows between rusty cylinders, and as I took refuge in just such a trench amid dozens of grease-smelling boys, I lost touch with Cowper. A squall of curses and complaints arose from the gang, leading me to believe all hope was lost. Then they turned on me: "You and that stupid old man! Shoulda known he was fulla shit! What are we gonna do now? Let them Marines fry our asses? " At once I was being manhandled, shoved from hand to hand out of the hiding place into the searchlight's bullying glare.

Then I was alone in the road, feeling very small beside the multiple tractor tires of the Sallie vehicle. One of my shoes had come off, and I could all but taste the cold, coarse macadam through my thin stocking. The spotlight was warm. In a reverie of hurt feelings, I shielded my eyes and began walking toward it. Fine, I thought madly. It felt good to let go. Tears streaming, I walked faster and faster, aware of nothing but my own feet and the baking noonday light. Swelling orchestral music seemed to accompany me, as if I was expected to break into some showstopping Broadway tune.

Suddenly someone snatched me off my feet and dove with me out of the light. As we hit the dirt I had a strange, strong sensation of being tackled by Santa. Then my senses returned, and I realized it was only the padded costume that made me think of Santa-it was the boy in the chipmunk suit (as if that was somehow less bizarre). Over his furry shoulder I could see row after row of great wheels lumbering by, close enough to touch.

"Sorry," he said, trying to catch his breath. "Jesus, you okay?"

My cheek stung from being scuffed on the ground. I wasn't sure what had just happened, but as the Sallie passed entirely, I saw the flattened chipmunk head in the middle of the road. Sitting up, I said, "Did you just apologize for saving my life?"

"Oh, sorry-I mean-" Before he could say more, rattling bursts of automatic gunfire broke out at the waterfront, and he threw himself on top of me, crying, "Geddown!"

But they weren't shooting at us. They were shooting at the advancing Sallie. Gleaming under the spotlight like a monstrous sowbug, the flat juggernaut maneuvered drunkenly toward the sub, where orange-vested figures could be seen running for cover. The gunfire was coming from a white Humvee parked at dockside, which was being used as a gun rest by two men in Darth Vader helmets. Flashing jets of ammo speared out from them in a twin stream, gouging nickel-bright pocks all over the crawler and leaving red afterimages hanging in the air.

The boy's body shuddered at each volley, his face screwed shut against the racket. "It's okay, it's okay," he said, more to himself than to me. He was heavy, a big guy who needed a shave, but even without his mask, he had a chipmunk quality that made me want to pet him and say, "There, there." For all the noise, I was strangely calm and couldn't bring myself to turn away from the action though I was afraid any moment a stray bullet might catch me in the eye.

There was no stopping the thing. At the last possible second, the soldiers gave up shooting and retreated to the submarine's gangway. Their Humvee disappeared from view as the hulking tractor closed with it and bowled it over the edge of the landing with a junkyard crash. Continuing on, the Sallie then struck the pivoting base of the gangway, buckling the narrow span like a Tinkertoy and causing the guards to fall out of sight. And still the machine kept on, jutting out farther and farther into space, making its own bridge to the submarine. I held my breath for the impending, catastrophic fall-Penis Patrol-but the Sallie stopped there, half its wheels frozen in midair. The sub's searchlight stayed trained on this precarious object as if staring in disbelief.

A voice issued from the deejay equipment left on the Sallie:

A man emerged from the Sallie's unscathed rear cockpit and stood holding a wireless microphone. He wore a stunning white military uniform, with black and gold epaulets and a cluster of medals over his breast pocket. In spite of the fog, the distance, and the masterful new costume, I could see at once that it was indeed Cowper. No wonder he almost ran me down-he had been driving backward. Amazed, I pushed the boy off and stood up. Hundreds of others were coming out of hiding around us, equally bemused, murmuring in the dark.

The submarine's loudspeaker replied, "FRED, THIS IS COMMANDER COOMBS. I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, BUT IN MY BOOK IT'S TREASON. YOU ARE INTERFERING WITH CRITICAL NAVAL OPERATIONS."

Cowper said, "HARVEY, THIS WAS NOT MY ORIGINAL PLAN, BUT I'M TRYING TO MAKE THE BEST OF A BAD SITUATION. HERE'S THE DEAL: LET ME AND ALL THESE PEOPLE ON BOARD, THEN PUT US ASHORE SOMEPLACE HALFWAY SECURE. IN RETURN, WE'LL EARN OUR KEEP-I KNOW YOU'RE SHORT OF HANDS. THESE KIDS WILL DO ANYTHING YOU TELL 'EM, PLUS WE'VE GOT A CREW OF OLD FARTS WITH DOLPHINS WHO ARE JUST ITCHING TO GET BACK BEHIND THE WHEEL. HEY, I'LL RE-UP. WHERE ARE YOU GONNA FIND ANOTHER GUY WITH MY EXPERIENCE?"