Walter Greatshell - Apocalypso

There was an explosive crash down at the wharf. Still staring in horror, Sandoval thought, What the hell are they doing now? The shooting abruptly stopped. and the thinly officious voice of Harvey Coombs came over a loudspeaker:

“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.”

Jim listened, snorting incredulously as the amplified voice of Fred Cowper, USN (Ret.), replied, “LET ME AND ALL THESE PEOPLE ON BOARD, THEN PUT US ASHORE SOMEPLACE HALFWAY SECURE!”

Was this a joke? Fred talked as if he was calling the shots. As if he and a ragtag bunch of hardhats and teenage boys were the ones holding the aces.

Which, Sandoval suddenly realized, they just might be.

With dawning wonder, he understood why they had brought the Sallie vehicle on their little crusade: The massive freight hauler wasn’t just to give the kids a lift. In its sheer bulk, it was the only weapon they had capable of sinking a nuclear submarine. What he was hearing down there was the ultimate game of chicken.

Demolition derby, Sandoval thought, not without admiration. Fred, you old bastard!

As he stood there shaking his head, the raveled Maenad rose to its feet and lurched toward him. At the same time, he could see movement in the fog: several odd-looking people running for the wharf. Not people-Xombies. Lots more Xombies, attracted by the light and commotion.

It was going to be a hell of a fight. Feeling reanimated himself, Jim knew he had to get down there, too… but obviously he’d never make it on foot. Dodging the gropes of that mangled Hellion, he sprinted toward the nearest available vehicle, an electric cart by the tool shed.

He wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Todd and Ray were sworn in as disciples of the Prophet Jim.

It was a strange process, requiring them first to stuff themselves with rich foods like cheese, cured meats, and canned fruitcake, then to become violently ill for three days. Purged to the point of dehydration and delirium, they were forced to confess their sins and desires at the end of a red-hot poker. After declaring their total fealty to the approved pantheon of gods and prophets, they were stripped to the waist-their revealed torsos covered with cross-shaped welts-and doused in freezing water almost to the point of drowning. Finally, they were allowed to sleep. For years, it seemed.

When they awoke, it was to gentle voices, soft robes, and delicious bread and soup.

Then the praying began. Prayers before meals, after meals, before bed, upon waking, and randomly throughout the day, religious obeisance required before and after engaging in any activity, however trivial, a constant, compulsive drone of gratitude and contrition.

Time blurred. Reality warped.

“Yoo-hoo. Wake up, sleepyhead. I’d like to show you something.”

Ray awoke to find a man’s face staring at him, inches away. It was a bulbous, boyish face, the face of a middle-aged schoolboy with hair sleeked back like a sumo. It took Ray a second to remember where he was: in his new quarters on the fourth floor of the Westin Hotel. Todd’s room was down the hall. The hotel was less luxurious than it had been formerly, having no heat, running water, electricity, working elevators, or room service, but it still looked pretty snazzy. Most of the disciples were bivouacked next door in the Providence Place Mall, camped out on the floor of Macy’s or Old Navy, and taking their meals in the Food Court.

“Who the fuck are you?” Ray asked in alarm.

“Whoa. Hey. Easy there, big fella. It’s only little ol’ me, Chace Dixon.”

The name didn’t immediately register. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Ray, I know it’s been a while, but come on. Don’t you recognize me?”

Oh shit. Ray hurriedly braided the frayed ends of his wits. Chace Dixon. Media Mogul and associate of Jim Sandoval. He owned an apartment in Jim’s building, and Ray had met him a few times in passing. What the hell was he doing here?

Then it hit him. Ray said, “Are you the Apostle Chace?”

“Did you just realize that? I love it! I was just thinking about you, and thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

“Hello… and good-bye.” Ray rolled over to face the wall.

Dixon sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ray, do you believe in miracles?”

“Not really.”

“I love that! Thank you. If only more people around here were so honest! Yet you must admit it’s a strange coincidence that you and I should meet each other again, here on the far side of the Apocalypse. One might even call it fate.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Of course it is! It’s totally nuts. But then that’s pretty much the definition of a miracle.”

“Or mental illness.”

“This from someone who claims to have seen Elvis.”

“Yeah, but I know it wasn’t really Elvis-it was Uri Miska.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loud-some people around here wouldn’t take kindly to it.”

“Why not?”

“I mean these Elvis visitations have inspired a bit of a cult. It’s a time of miracles and wonders; people are primed to believe in anything, including Elvis. They don’t want to think he’s an imposter.”

“But you know he is.”

“Let’s just say it’s part of my job description to promote miracles and wonders.”

“Have you even seen him?”

“Seen him?” Dixon said. “We shot him.”

“You what? Shot him?”

“Yes indeedy. After what happened to us last time we were in this town, my sentries are on a hair trigger; they shoot anything that moves. One of them put a twelve-gauge shotgun load in Elvis’s chest. Blew a hole you could have stuck your fist through, but it had no effect on him. He just kind of shook it off, and said, ‘Don’t do that, man.’ Then he was gone. I ordered the men not to report anything until I could get to the bottom of it. Thanks to you and your friend, I think we have.”

“Miska thinks you’re threatening the survival of the human race by spreading immunity to the Xombies. He says some kind of Armageddon is coming that only Xombies can survive.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think Miska’s probably crazy.”

“Put your shoes on,” Dixon said, getting up off the bed. “I’d like to show you something.”

He led Ray through a dark parking garage that connected the hotel to the Convention Center. The latter was a large, glass-faced building resembling an airport terminal. Unlike the mall or the hotel, there were very few people around.

As they walked, Dixon said, “It’s not as if I was ever that pious before Agent X. I believed in God, but organized religion was a tool of manipulation, a way to control the masses. I thought it was purely psychological, but then I had never had any real evidence to the contrary.”

Leading at a brisk pace, Dixon took Ray down a utility corridor to a heavy double door marked EMERGENCY EXIT-ALARM WILL SOUND.

In a hushed voice, he said, “We call this the Mosh Pit.”

He unbolted the door and pulled it open. On the other side was a dim balcony overlooking a huge convention hall full of people. Not people-Xombies. Thousands of eerily quiet Exes, all staring up at them. Even fifty feet above that sea of blue faces, Ray felt panic squeeze his guts like a big cold hand.

“What are they all doing here?” he asked.

“They’re locked in.”

“Why?”

“Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em. Originally, we intended to burn the whole thing down, but then we realized it wasn’t necessary. They can’t get out. It’s like storing nuclear waste. Out of sight, out of mind.”