Walter Greatshell - Apocalypse blues

"Time to skedaddle," said Cowper, dragging me away.

Somewhat reluctantly, I let Cowper lead me from the zone of frantic activity at the fence to the relative peace just beyond. The road continued, deserted, through tracts of no-man's-land and widely spaced industrial buildings. Cries of unseen gulls echoed in the dark.

Much as I trusted Fred, I wasn't sure I liked leaving the realm of the living so quickly. With crisp volleys of gunfire ringing behind us, I asked, "Is it safe to be out in the open like this?"

"Long as that fence holds," he said, short of breath. "You can't see it from here, but this whole compound sticks out in the bay. That gate is the only way onto the premises-that's why they've held out so long. Plus it's set way back behind a bunch of posted government property-not many people know it's here. It ain't even on the map."

"It's a Navy base?"

"During the war it used to be a training field for the Naval Air Station, but now it belongs to a big defense contractor. They've been keeping it running on an emergency basis as a matter of national security, offering safe shelter to families of employees if they stay on the job. I guess they were pretty hard up, because they came and tried to talk me outta retirement. Fat chance. I couldn't see sleeping on no concrete floor at my age. I said to them, 'I hope you fellas ain't trying to turn that place into some kind of refugee center, because there's no potable water and nowhere to run if things get hot. Oughta be a toxic-waste dump from all the lead and cadmium that's leached into the soil over the years.'

"They say to me, 'Fred, that's just it-we got all the water and power we could ever use, plus we got the whole Atlantic Ocean to escape to. We're authorized to use any and all facilities at our disposal to safeguard sensitive technology. That includes moving it offshore. You can even bring a friend.'

"'What are you saying?' I asked. 'You gotta be kidding me.'

"They get all spooky, and say, 'Just consider it, Fred. You think things are bad out there now? This ain't even a wet fart compared to the shit that's coming down the pipe. Sandoval knows-that's why he thought of you. The company needs you, Fred. You're part of the family.'

"I thought they were crazier than bedbugs and sent 'em packing, but I remember Beau looking me in the eye as he left, and saying, 'This is privileged information, Fred, but Sandoval gives you his personal guarantee that if you come now, you're a shoo-in for a seat on the board. How can you turn that down?' I said, 'Just watch me.'"

We left the main road, turning right alongside a second fence and a row of low, shuttered buildings. Behind them was a storage yard strewn with heavy machinery and steel scrap, enormous items, but all dwarfed beneath the vast white hangar that towered like an iceberg over all. Many cars and trucks were parked before a second checkpoint, this one manned by only a few guards. Apparently they had been notified about us, because they let us through without any interrogation, keeping well clear of me.

"How you doing, Sam?" Cowper called to one.

"What did you do?" Sam demanded. "I can't raise Reynolds."

"Reynolds is gone-you must've seen the explosion. If I were you, I'd get over there."

"You led them to us," Sam said coldly, clicking his gun's safety on and off. "We were doing okay until you led them here, Fred. You and that…" He couldn't bring himself to say it. Keeping his eyes averted from mine, the man said, "You should've stayed away. You're not going to get what you came for."

"All I'm after right now is Ed Albemarle. He in there?"

"He's in there, but he's not going to be able to help you. Nobody is."

"Thanks, Sam. It's good to see you, too."

To our backs, the man said, "I could shoot you for being out after lockdown! I'd be within my rights!"

As we crossed the tarmac toward the hangar, Cowper noticed my upset, and whispered to me, "He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't worry, he won't shoot. And it's not true, you know, what he said about us leading them in. Those things were already on their way-we just happened to come along at the same time they did. It's that 'critical mass' the TV predicted: They saturate the urban areas, then fan out across the countryside when they run out of prey. Providence is spilling over-we just hit the wave front is all." He was sweating.

"What does he mean, we're not going to get what we came for, nobody's going to help us?"

"Aw, nothin'-it's nothing for you to worry about."

We approached a door and were buzzed through from the guard shack. At first all I saw was a cavernous room full of machinery-rows of giant rusty drums covered with scaffolding; multistory steel frameworks like half-finished buildings; antlike workers toiling under bleak factory lights-but then the sound began to register: thrash-metal music and the familiar rasp and clatter of practicing skate-punks, punctuated by echoing cheers and catcalls. I could see lots of hardhats, but no one was working. The door locked shut behind us.

This was no longer a factory. It was a playground. An industrial-chic skate park. Curved steel plates weighing tons, and cylinders wide as subway tunnels, had been commandeered for aerial stunts by bike and skateboard fiends. People swung like Tarzan from dizzying catwalks in the rafters or, more alarmingly, bungee-jumped the hundred or so feet to the concrete floor, springing back just in time. A deejay standing on a huge, multiwheeled platform-the mother of all flatbed trucks-plied his stylings before a scattering of headbangers and homeboys and someone wearing a big-headed chipmunk costume. The aisles between machines were Turkish bazaars full of tents and sleeping bags, with clotheslines slung like cobwebs overhead.

Everyone seemed completely unaware of the nightmare outside. What's more, they were kids, teenagers-boys. Hundreds of boys. A tough-looking bunch in their work boots, hooded sweatshirts, baggy pants, and stocking caps. They were filthy as chimney sweeps from life in the factory. Staring in wonder, all I could do was silently mouth, "Oh my gosh."

Our appearance on the floor began to have a ripple effect. As people saw us, saw me, they reacted in surprise, pointing us out to others nearby and gradually bringing a halt to all the activities. Some fell back, others began to come forward to meet us. Among the latter were many older men I hadn't noticed at first. They didn't look particularly friendly.

One exception was a burly, chinless guy in dirty denim coveralls who came running up, eyes wide, and clasped hands with Cowper. "Fred, you bastard," he said. "Where in hell did you come from?"

"Hell is right," said Cowper. He leaned toward the other man, and said, "What's the bad news, Ed?"

The bigger man pursed his lips, bobbing his head. "It's like you said, Fred. They screwed us."

"When?"

"Last week. Had a big recommissioning ceremony, gave us a steak dinner, then dropped the bomb while we were all loosening our belts."

"Who did? Sandoval?"

The heavyset man nodded bitterly, saying, "Those bastards never had any intention of taking us along."

"Has she put to sea?"

"Not yet, but they're not telling us anything. Should be anytime now."

"I could've told ya."

"You did."

"Did they give any reason?"

"Yeah, we got a boatload of sensitive materials the day before from Norfolk-you know about SPAM?"

"What do you mean, Spam?"

The other man waved the question away. "Sensitive Personnel and Materials-crap! All the stuff the government can't leave behind when it shuts down. Basically SPAM got our seat. I don't care about me, but those kids busted ass for a month, and now they get bumped by a shipment of top secret nonsense? The future is riding with these kids, and they're fit for duty."