Walter Greatshell - Apocalypse blues

Cowper agreed, and they went back upstairs.

Not sure what we were doing, I helped carry all the corpses down another level to the torpedo room. This was frustrating because we had just dragged three bodies up from there, plus our oxygen tanks, and it was hard not to brain yourself with those masks on. Shiny forest green torpedoes with blue caps were stacked in cradles on either side of the aisle. Straight ahead were four elaborate chrome hatches with dangling tags that read, TUBE EMPTY. Noteiro yanked off the tags and opened the round doors.

"Stuff 'em in there," he said, raspy-voiced. "Move it!"

We managed to pack three bodies in each tube. There was a huge piston that helped ram them in. Since I thought torpedoes ran on their own power, I wasn't sure how these were going to be launched, and watched closely as Vic shut the tubes and went to a wall console with a padded stool in front of it. Headsets of different colors hung from a bar under the lights; he put on a pair and adjusted the controls. There was a hollow sound of water rushing through pipes.

"Flooding tubes one… two… three… and four," he said. "Tubes one through four ready in all respects." A moment later there was an explosive whoosh, unnervingly powerful, then three more hair-raising blasts in close succession. This was something even the boys had never seen. A bit shaken, we loaded the last bodies into one tube for a final firing. Then it was done. I couldn't say what I was thinking: Like flushing goldfish.

The next thing that happened nearly made us forget our exhaustion and all the night's ugliness: the diesel engine rumbled to life again, this time sucking fresh, cold air into the sub. Boys were so happy they hugged each other. They even forgot themselves and hugged me. Unfortunately, though most of the poison was gone in minutes, we were told to leave our masks on until every compartment could be ventilated and inspected for residual pockets of gas. This put a damper on things.

Since the boys and I were not trusted with this duty, we were left to wait in the crew's mess, our breathing gear plugged into jacks on the floor. We sat nodding off in the blue-upholstered booths like winos at an all-night diner.

"I've had it," said a maniacal freckle-faced guy with Creamsicle orange hair and white eyelashes. "I'm not wearing this mask another second!" Then he went right back to sleep.

Ignoring him, Chipmunk Boy asked me, "What's your name?"

"Lulu. Louise. Louise Pangloss."

"I'm Hector Albemarle." He offered me his furry mitt and I shook it, feeling silly. Pointing at the others, he said, "That's Tyrell Banks, Jake…"

"Bartholomew," moaned the sleeping guy.

"-Jake Bartholomew, Julian Noteiro, uh, Shawn Dickey, Sal DeLuca, Lemuel Sanchez, Ray Despineau, and Cole Hayes."

Most of the boys acknowledged me in some way as they were introduced, nodding or at least glancing over. They were quite a mixed bag. You get to know someone pretty fast when sharing a chore as miserable as body-snatching, and I had formed distinct impressions of all their personalities:

In spite of the costume, Hector was mature for his age, brave, a peacemaker, and considered something of a nerd. I already liked him a lot though I was afraid of his stepfather, Ed Albemarle, with whom he had a prickly relationship.

Tyrell was a goofy streetwise guy, but also a hard worker, who brightened up the job with his incessant funny griping. He joked about fusing country-western and hip-hop to create a musical opus called Westward Ho. This was some kind of running gibe at Shawn, who aspired to preach New Age mysticism through the medium of rap.

Jake, too, considered himself a comic, dropping silly non sequiturs ("When I meet someone, I just like to know if they identify more with the Trix rabbit or with the kids. There's no right or wrong answer-take your time") that the others made no attempt to acknowledge, as if they thought he was a bore. He was sort of a spaz-I felt a little protective of him.

Julian was all business, a straight-edger who acted like he knew the sub better than anybody and resented being the one to have to correct us. It was he whose suggestion about "piloting by scope" had been rebuffed by Albemarle up top. Julian was the grandson of old Vic, who derived a sly amusement from seeing the boy steam. Shawn, a laid-back skate-punk and poet, was sexy in a Madison-Avenue-exploitation-of-youth kind of way, a walking hipness barometer with piercings like chrome acne, who seemed fascinated by everything that was going on. Unfazed by Tyrell's jokes, he carried around a note-pad at all times, scribbling down lyrical thunderbolts as they occurred. He had been the deejay back at the factory.

The other four were quiet and withdrawn, more obviously in shock: Sal was angry and said nothing that wasn't bitterly sarcastic-not that he said much. Ray was his best friend-I first assumed they were brothers-who spoke with a long-suffering weariness that reminded me of Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh. They both worked listlessly and had to be prodded to help.

Lemuel was the huge kid I had noticed on deck. I had thought he was Samoan or some other Pacific islander, but found out he was actually Native American, of Narragansett ancestry. His mother had worked the buffet at Foxwoods Casino. He was very shy, perhaps distrustful, though his size and physical strength made him conspicuous among us. He kept stealing glances at me.

Cole Hayes was in his own world and barely took notice of us or anything else. It was like he was watching a movie only he could see. He did what was expected, but he was a tall kid and kept bumping his head on hangers and lights, reacting to the pain with an incomprehension that reminded me of King Kong getting strafed. I learned later that he had been a high-school track star from the projects in South Providence, courted by the best colleges in the country. His future had been a vision of paradise like no one in his family had ever imagined. Then Agent X came along.

I returned their nods, hoping they were starting to overcome their suspicion. "Nice to meet you," I said in general. To Hector, I asked, "How long have you all known each other?"

"Some of us went to school together, and I've known Julian and Tyrell a long time because our dads were friends. The rest I met up with for the first time at the plant, but we've all gotten to know each other pretty good since then."

"How long ago was that?"

"About a month."

"And you know everyone by name?" I was terrible with names.

"You learn it doing roll call twice a day. Plus it was kind of my job to get to know everyone-I was floor safety monitor."

"Narc!" snorted Jake, the orange-haired kid, still feigning sleep.

"Safety Squirrel," I said.

"Yeah."

"How did you wind up in the factory?"

"It was really weird. We all got brought in under police escort, right before Agent X took off. It was Christmas break, and this big bus convoy goes to all our houses, picking everyone up like for camp or something, except it was the middle of the night. My mother and sister were freaking out thinking I was being arrested for something, until the security men told them my stepdad had authorized it-that there was something very important going on at the plant, and I was to take part. I think they gave her a note from him, too. We could see a lot of other guys already in the buses, so I started to think it might be some kind of lame father-son bonding thing sponsored by the company. As soon as they knew I was the guy on their list, they kind of raided my room, stuffed everything into duffel bags, and put it all on the bus with me. Sheila and my mom were standing out on the step in their nighties-I remember wishing they would go back inside, I was so embarrassed. That was the last time I ever saw them."

He stared down at the fake wood grain of the tabletop, tracing patterns with his finger.