Walter Greatshell - Apocalypso

“Rayyyy,” he breathed.

Trying to leap away, Ray was jerked back like a rag doll, pinned face-to-face with the black-eyed horror that had been James Sandoval.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Crushing Ray against the deck, the Xombie pried his resisting jaws apart, stretching its own mouth wide and clamping onto Ray’s in a hellish antithesis of CPR-a kiss of death. With one suck, he collapsed Ray’s lungs. The boy heaved, convulsing as his rib cage crumpled, then went limp. Now the creature reversed the action, exhaling with all its might, inverting its own bronchial tissue into Ray’s airway to flood the dead boy’s chest with X-infected blood cells.

Ray died and was born again.

Sprawled on the aft deck like a corpse, Ray woke up with a bang. His consciousness exploded as his dying brain cells were resurrected by the invading Maenad morphocyte. He was dazzled by the strangeness and beauty of his new world: the plywood cabin transformed into a fairy cave, the sea diamond-bright and seething with energy, the sky awash with ripples of cosmic light, the clouds glowing with ethereal colors. Even by daylight, he could see the invisible tracks of time and space, the ghostly orbits of particles and planets, the rings around the Sun. And amid all these long transits of inanimate matter, the futile blip of human consciousness.

He sprang to his feet.

Todd. Poor doomed Todd. Having just been there, Ray was overwhelmed with pity… and dawning comprehension. Look at this, he thought, feeling his broken body renew itself. It was nothing. Death was nothing, not anymore. Neither was pain, nor hunger, nor any other yearning of the flesh. He no longer had to tolerate the hopelessness of human existence; he had a choice, he could do something about it. Not just for Todd, but for all the miserable human beings still teetering on the brink of death. They didn’t have to die! The dread that hung over every living creature could be vanquished. And with that realization came an electric rush of joy, an exultation born of equal parts love, lust, and evangelical ecstasy. He dove back inside to save his friend.

As if having read Ray’s mind, the woman named Chandra Stevens was waiting, staring down at him in brazen invitation, her bright inner flame making her clothes a paper lantern. Unable to resist that warmth, Ray tried to speak, to make her understand, but his words came out garbled, a drunken slur. A noise an idiot might make… or an animal.

Disdaining the faulty instrument of speech, he leaped like a wild animal, embracing Chandra in a grip of steel and pressing her body against the forward bulkhead, bending her neck back nearly to breaking. She didn’t resist, surrendering completely to the kiss, and it was only as Ray sucked the air from her lungs that he realized she had tricked him.

No!

The woman was full of pure oxygen, her blood and tissues saturated with it. She had breathed deep from an oxygen tank, hyperventilating like a free diver before descent, then took one last hit and held it. It was no experiment; she knew exactly what she was doing. Behind her, Sandoval’s body lay splayed out in the forward compartment, another casualty of her medical expertise.

Ray tried to pull away, but the gas worked too fast, wilting his undead flesh from the inside out, turning his sentient blue-black blood instantly red. That red blood jump-started his heart and hit his brain like a runaway locomotive, knocking him instantly unconscious.

As Ray came back to life, he could hear people talking about him.

“Is there going to be any permanent brain damage?”

“Shouldn’t be. We purged him before he was fully saturated. He was only dead a couple of minutes-that’s not enough time for oxygen starvation to kill many brain cells.”

“Oh my God. What’s it like, being a Xombie?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“But don’t you still-”

“Son, shut up! I’m already tense enough, all right? Whatever I am, I’m still me, no thanks to this dumb kid. If it weren’t for Chandra’s quick thinking, you’d all be screwed. Now, we don’t have time for this; we have to batten everything down for that front that’s coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure you get your dosage. I don’t want any more accidents.”

“No, sir.”

As the others left, Ray heard one remain behind. A soft voice spoke in his ear, “Please get better, Ray. For me.” It was Deena.

The hurricane hit.

It was not a true hurricane, merely a minor gale, but none of them had ever been on a small ship in rough seas. Sandoval and Chandra Stevens were unflappable, pretending not to be alarmed by swells that suddenly rose higher than their heads, or by waves breaking over the entire boat, or by the deck heeling over so far it became a steep hill.

But Ray could tell that his elders weren’t as confident as they pretended to be: the rabbity look in the Chandra’s eyes when the yacht shuddered under tons of whitewater, or Sandoval’s anxious silence as the boat struggled to right itself. Jim’s green face scared Ray more than the storm itself.

It was impossible to venture above without admitting a deluge into the cabin. Everything belowdecks was awash, and the bilge pump barely kept up. All aboard were soaked to the skin, cold to the bone, dreaming about a hot drink or a hot meal. More than anything, Ray was desperate to go to the bathroom-number two-but the head was a plastic bucket that had to be dumped overboard-a difficult operation under the circumstances. There was no question of opening the dive well. He held it in as long as he could, sweating out the intestinal spasms as he tried to sleep, until finally it was time for his watch.

It was after midnight. The swells were so large that the boat swooped in and out of the canyonlike troughs without much pounding, but the rain and wind were still fierce. Before Sandoval had retired for the night, they had turned off the engine and deployed the sea anchor, so the yacht was dragging along like a small man leashed to a large, eager dog.

As stealthily as possible, Ray left the cockpit and climbed over the starboard rail. Crouching there, hanging on for dear life by one hand, he lowered his pants and jutted his rear end into space.

Before he could let fly, something broke the waves close behind him. Something huge-an enormous black monolith that parted the sea, jutting upward, spreading its wings and casting a blinding white eye upon his bare ass. It was a submarine.

Aw, shit, he thought.

“This is it, sir! Welcome to Xanadu!”

Looking out the windows of the big helicopter, Air Force 2, James Sandoval could see thousands of people waiting to greet him. A giant banner read, WELCOME CHAIRMAN SANDOVAL! Flags were flying, bands were playing, children were waving, and hundreds of soldiers stood lined up at attention. Those troops were wearing flamboyant parade uniforms with tall hats, tasseled epaulets, and rows of gold buttons. Their rifles looked like toys.

“Where did all those people come from?” Sandoval asked.

“They’re mostly new converts,” said his pilot, a jolly Marine aviator named Hapgood Bragg.

“You mean converted Xombies?”

“That’s right.”

“But they look so… normal.”

“Of course! We’ve streamlined the conditioning process. Otherwise, there would be no point.”

The helicopter was set down gently, and men came running with a rolling stair platform. At the edge of the landing pad was a group of dignitaries covered with medals and other decorations, the tallest one holding a giant gold key, and a line of women in flowing pastel gowns holding necklaces of flowers. Everyone had formal gloves, cravats, canes, top hats, and other such anachronistic finery, all blowing violently in the helicopter’s downdraft. It was ridiculous.