Walter Greatshell - Apocalypso

The microscopic particles, each one an independent crystalline spore, began locking together, growing, multiplying, building webs of water and protein that mimicked cell membranes, then furnishing those membranes with hardy clockwork. This reconstituted mass, representing the flesh of over four thousand rendered Clears, themselves each a colony organism, expanded like yeasty dough, quickly filling the concrete silo and blowing the lid off. What came out amid the fire and steam was twenty tons of pure id. A literal living will: thought translated to shape, and shape to action.

With a deafening scream, it rose from the breached citadel.

“Now, that’s something you don’t see every day,” I said, as all the puppet Xombies and robots went berserk, blinded by the massive electromagnetic discharge, attacking one another or just crashing to earth. Amid all this, something very large and very hard to look at was being birthed from its shell.

“Let’s go,” Bobby said, taking my hand.

I wiped mud off his face. “Go where?” I asked.

“Back to the boats. They’re waiting for us.”

“Okay.”

Throttling away from shore, we hurtled out of the inlet and veered south down the Potomac. It was much faster going downriver than it had been coming up, not only because the stream was with us but because we knew all the major obstacles, and the best routes through them. Soon we were out of view of the madness happening behind us and started focusing on what was ahead. Stopping along the Virginia shore to refuel, we briefly surveyed the town of Mount Vernon. From a distance it looked like every other town, its rooftops rising from groves of shade trees, the fall leaves rustling in the breeze. I could see a main street lined with pubs and restaurants. It could have been a quiet Sunday morning.

Looking closer, the evidence of long neglect became more apparent: streets littered with abandoned cars and blown debris-roof tiles, broken glass, fallen tree limbs. As in Washington, plants had run rampant: Huge thickets of knotweed and thistle filled every patch of earth-lawns were extinct. Seams in the pavement were shaggy with greenery, and larger cracks sprouted actual trees. In places, the city had given way to swamp, storm drains backed up and the stagnant water clotted with algae. Here and there amid the refuse could be seen shoes, clothes, New Year’s Eve decorations. Just shit. The town was dead, we were dead, and we felt no urge to pretend otherwise. Not anymore. We returned to the boats.

Following a sharp eastward bend in the river, we paused at Blossom Point to ditch two of our faltering skiffs for a big power cruiser. The boat was sitting on a trailer in the dockyard, all fueled up and still hitched to the car that had backed it halfway down the launch ramp. Whatever had happened to the unfortunate boat owner, his loss was our gain.

As we rounded Smith Point and turned south into the vastness of Chesapeake Bay, there it was.

From a distance, it could have been our submarine, that winged tower on its black peninsula, but as we drew closer, there was no mistaking the differences. It was five thousand tons lighter and a hundred feet shorter than our boat. This was not the USS No-Name, resurrected from its murky grave. It was not an American sub at all, but a French boomer of the Triomphante class.

And it appeared to be abandoned.

The ship was wide open to the elements, adrift in the middle of the channel like a floating log. Humans had recently been here, we could sense them, but it was only a vague aftertaste. There were no spotters on the bridge or escort vessels. The periscope and radar masts were not deployed. Bay and sky were clear as far as the eye could see… and our Xombie eyes could see very far indeed.

“Think they’re coming back?” Coombs asked.

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

We pulled alongside and boarded the ship. I was surprised by how normal it felt to be on a submarine again.

One by one, we entered the hatch, climbing down the ladder to the deck below. We moved quickly, headfirst, agile as cockroaches as we searched out every corner. There was no obstruction, no resistance, no reaction to our trespassing. No alarms whatsoever.

The interior of the French sub was different from what we were used to, me especially, but even I recognized the basic function of almost everything in sight. Most submarine technology is fundamentally the same: up, down; forward, aft; port, starboard; fast, slow. Beyond those basics, every control was in the service of the power plant, the weapons, or the life-support systems-the last having recently fallen into disuse on our vessel.

Compared to the barren shell of our boat, this submarine was a warm and cozy womb. I could smell coffee and fresh-baked rolls with butter, men’s aftershave, minty soaps, clean bedding, ironed clothes, and patent leather shoes. The smell evoked a whole dead culture, one I had never really experienced and therefore didn’t realize it was possible to yearn for: the solace of a first-class ticket.

“I feel like I’m in Paris,” I said.

The hatches slammed shut.

There was a whoosh of powerful compressors, creating a vacuum that sucked the stale air into holding tanks. As the cabin pressure dropped, we could feel it in our bodies-not as pain, but a sensation of tightness, as if our heads were going to pop. We could also hear it affecting the boat, its pressure hull flexing like an empty beer can. Just before our fluids boiled and eyeballs started flying, a human voice ordered, “Close all outboard valves and open O2 reserve!”

Pure oxygen flooded in. It was an extraordinary feeling. All of us suddenly opened our mouths as if remembering a question of desperate importance… then froze in place, our blue faces flushing bright red, our bloodshot eyes gaping as their pupils dilated to pinpricks. Then, one by one, we all took a long, ragged breath of air-a veritable backward scream-and collapsed to the deck.

A moment later, we began to rise. Shakily, painfully, we sat up, staring around like survivors of some terrible catastrophe. Dr. Langhorne was the first to speak, and she articulated what all of us were feeling in every quailing, agonized nerve fiber.

“Oh my God,” she sobbed. “I’m alive!”

I, too, was wracked with the smothering horror of it. As depressing as eternity could be, I was not ready to give it up so soon. To be human again? So scared and fragile and cramped by time? The very thought was terrifying-perhaps the only thought that could terrify a Xombie.

Several men appeared, strolling from the aft hatch and looking down at us with curiosity and pity. Their faces were blurred by air masks, and they wore foreign military uniforms-the uniforms of French naval officers.

“Bonjour,” said the leader. “Bienvenue a Le Terrible-although I prefer to call it the Apocalypso. Welcome aboard; we hope you enjoy your stay with us. My name is Alaric Despineau, and I will be your captain today.”

My jump-started heart almost stalled. Alaric? It was a name I knew all too well. Not least because it was my middle name: Louise Alaric Pangloss.

“Hi, Pops,” I groaned.

“Lulu. Yes, of course.” Stunned, Captain Despineau said, “Mon Dieu, it is so wonderful to finally meet you, you have no idea. I have wished for this a long time.”

“You and me both, bub,” I croaked, sitting up and propping myself against the forward bulkhead. “I’d love to catch up on old times-oh, right, there weren’t any.”

My body felt carbonated, every cell fizzing painfully. I hadn’t felt pain in a long time. It kind of sucked. But there was also something amazing about it-I was physically present in a way I had forgotten possible. I truly existed.