"CHEW DUNE, BOA?" the monster roared again.
Sal awoke, confused, then recoiled and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to die quickly. He couldn't bear to look. Every inch of the thing held a new horror: cancerous growths of ears, nipples, belly buttons, genitals-a cannibal collage of misplaced organs. And on top of it all a head like a spiny leather cactus, with three blackened holes for a face. It reminded him of something out of a comic book he had once read, about a swamp monster called the Man-Thing, whose tagline was Whatever knows fear BURNS at the Man-Thing's touch.
Sal was speechless, unable to think. Deafened by the blood rushing in his ears, he was yet able to sense that the other boys had gone equally silent and still. And he knew why: They were surrounded, the wood taken over by dozens of these horrific things, rising amid the swamp brush like ghastly sentinels.
The monster leaned closer. "Ahmo ask yew once mo: What the hail you all doin' heah? Ah-bla Inglays?"
Its heavy Southern drawl suddenly clicked.
"Nothing!" Sal cried, relieved to understand, to at least be able barely to comprehend what this appalling vision was saying to him. To know that it was in some way human. This hopeful possibility triggered a domino effect in his mind: Of course it was human! Yes, he could see it now, a face through the eyeholes-there was some kind of man in there. The Xombie flesh was only skin deep, a grisly living costume. He was not a Xombie at all but dressed in Xombies. Armored from head to toe in living Xombie flesh.
Weeping, Sal cried, "We're running away from Xombies! They're coming! Help us, please!"
"Xombies, hell. You ain't-"
Just then the churning, rumbling noise within the tunnel became very loud. Waves lapped out from its mouth, fanning across the mired boys, then a single high, resounding voice: "Yeeeeehaaaaaaw!"
And out came the boat.
It was a large amphibious truck, a converted military landing craft of the type called a duck boat, familiar to Sal from preapocalypse days as a tourist ride. The aft end of it was covered with a peculiar, fleshy canopy resembling a Conestoga wagon, Xombie skins stretched over aluminum ribs like the translucent webbing of a bat's wing. On its hull, painted in ornate letters, were the words PRAIRIE SCHOONER. The vehicle's open front appeared shaggy, its high gunwales festooned with an odd, rippling mass of bluish fronds, opening and closing like blooming flower petals. Not flowers-arms. A thousand clutching, severed arms, nailed down like blossoms on a Rose Parade float.
"We found one of Miska's!" the truck's driver shouted. Upon seeing the boys, he pulled up short, and called down, "Well, well! Looks like we ain't the only ones to bag us a prize. What we got here?"
In their ghoulish second skins, the vehicle's crew were no less unspeakably awful than the men on the ground, each one's costume arranged differently according to personal idiosyncrasy, each one with a large black number scorched-branded-on the front of his leathery helmet. But there was no question now that there were ordinary men underneath. Aside from the massive vehicle, the proof was in the axes, spears, guns, lights, and sophisticated night-vision equipment they carried-Xombies traveled much lighter. But with their Xombie armor and medieval weaponry, they resembled nothing so much as a boatload of hideously deformed goblins. Aliens. Mutants. It was not such fanciful monstrosities that sprang foremost to Sal's mind, however. The whoops, ropes, drawling banter, and holstered staple guns were indicative of a slightly more r eassuring archetype.
Cowboys, he thought crazily. Rednecks. Shit, that's all we need: a bunch of sadistic backwoods shitkickers-probably necrophiliacs, too. Necrophiliacs and cannibals. They'll rape us, then kill us, then rape us again, then eat us, then wear our skins as hats.
Somehow that still wasn't as scary to him as Xombies.
"Who-who are you guys?" he asked shrilly.
"Ain't that funny," said the monstrous vision. "I was about to ask you the same thing. But I guess we both have to wait-trouble's nigh."
"Harpies bazaar!" someone whooped.
The Xombies were upon them.
First there was the sound, a rushing commotion in the dense underbrush, crackling like wildfire. Then, far down the glade, Sal saw a solid wave of manic blue bodies sprinting toward them. Swarming up the railroad tracks, the river of trampling ghouls gathered force as it approached, secondary streams of Xombies merging with it out of the trees.
Sal barely had time to think before a blue hand seized him by the front of his jacket. The hand was not attached to a person, but to the end of a long pole wielded by a man on the duck boat. The man shouted, "Hang on!" and in one dizzying swoop Sal was swung over the high rail of the truck-its frilled arms following him like iron filings after a magnet-and dumped hard onto its rubberized foredeck. Someone planted his bootheel on Sal's chest, using a crowbar to pry the hand loose. It hurt.
Knocked flat on his back, Sal rolled aside just as another boy tumbled in, crying "Hey!"-it was Kyle Hancock. Two other boys followed in quick succession, Todd Holmes and Freddy Fisk, boated like flopping tuna, then finally Ray Despineau. No sign of the rest; they had scattered, fleeing into the trees. Sal tried to get up, but one of the grisly men pinned him with a spear handle, and barked, "Stay still!"
Suddenly, they could hear Xombies all around the vehicle, the terrifying wash of sound filling the air. Sal's body tensed in expectation of blue demons pouring over the rails-the duck boat was wide open. But the creatures did not come in. As the truck lurched into motion, the men on foot calmly hoisted themselves up the rear step, piling in with practiced ease. The Xombies weren't touching them.
"Phew, that's a peck of 'em," one said, voice muffled beneath his spiny meat helmet.
"You have to help the others!" Sal cried. "Please!"
"We would if'n we could, but they already gone. Ain't nobody can he'p them now."
A flurry of Xombies boiled up against the rail, threatening to spill over.
Freddy screamed, "Why don't you shoot! They're coming in!"
"We don't waste good ammo on Harpies."
Another said, "Don't do no good."
"Fact it makes things worse. Just more bits and pieces to contend with."
Their resolve on this point was demonstrated when a feral blue infant leaped from a tree toward the huddled boys. Instead of shooting it, the crew deftly speared the flailing thing in midair and pitched it overboard. They all had such lances; the craft's topside bristled with them, every one unique as though for a specialized purpose, or perhaps just customized to suit the user. The basic design was long wooden handles tipped with variously shaped iron spikes, blades, and sharp-pronged hooks, though a few also had severed Xombie hands affixed to them. The choice of such a tool, and the skill with which it was being wielded, evinced a level of casual use that Sal found both alarming and wildly reassuring.
The boys could hear Xombie skulls thwacking against the hull as the truck plowed through. Its angled bow was particularly well suited to this purpose, rafting atop the slippery living cataract.
Prairie Schooner, Sal thought. Injun country.
Heedless of the six-wheeled juggernaut, Xombies were squashed into the mud by the dozens, by the hundreds, their ribs collapsing like crates and inky blood jetting from every orifice. It was a temporary condition; they would be back. Over the rail Sal could see blue arms flailing as more Xombies lunged against the sides, but they weren't coming aboard. Something seemed to be preventing them from hanging on.
As he watched, a particularly eager female crested the railing only to be stopped short by contact with that garden of disembodied limbs nailed to the gunwales. The effect was immediate: Hundreds of undead arms, themselves intent on the boys, jerked like a mass of disturbed snakes and hurled the attacking Xombie against a tree.
"Why aren't they coming in?" Freddie whimpered.
"The hands," Sal said. "The hands aren't letting them. I don't think they like being grabbed."
"You got that right," said the leader. "They strongly object to bein' manhandled by one of they own. You ever see how magnets repel each other? That's what it's like. Them Harpies spook to each other's touch-it's like an electric shock or something. Maybe it reminds 'em a what they is."
Another man said, "Nah, that ain't it. They just a hindrance to each other, that's all, an obstacle to be avoided-ain't no feeling about it. All they can see is us, like as if we got a damn neon sign over our heads."
"Don't make no damn difference why it works," said the first man, "long as it works." To the boys, he said, "They won't even fight over us. They got this system for keeping things polite: first come, first served. One to a customer. Ain't you never noticed how when a Harpy grabs someone, the rest of 'em just shy off? We call it the Solomon Principle. Otherwise, they'd tear each other to pieces, and us, too. By wearing their doodads, we give off that vibe of being spoken for; our dance card is full."
"Damn," said Sal, awestruck. This was like discovering fire. "It's like the ultimate camouflage!"
Kyle said, "I wish we'd known about this shit sooner. Get me a Xombie-skin jacket."
The man nodded. "Damn straight. It's like a protective membrane, like them Nemo fish that can live in a poisonous sea flower. We just goin' back to nature."
"How'd you figure all this out?" Sal asked.
"We didn't. It come down from the man upstairs-part of our shareholder benefits. But your boys on the sub must get the tech updates, too. Ain't you got no company rep?"
"Oh… sure. Definitely."
Still dumbfounded, Freddy asked, "But can't it get at you? Their skins, I mean? Aren't you scared of it touching you? Hurting you somehow?"
"It wants to-that's what holds 'em on so tight. That, and some staples. But we figured out that by using pelts from different Harpies it causes friction between 'em, and the aversion keeps 'em on their own little territories, like countries on a map. That's what we got goin' here on each of us: a little model of detente."
It did look like a map. A hairy, pulsating relief map. "But how can you stand it touching you?" Kyle asked.
"Oh, it don't touch us, trust me. We're all wearing protective duds underneath this. You gotta: Once it latches on, it's very hard to remove unless you tempt it off with bare skin, which is why we been makin' you boys keep your distance. Don't get in reach of them hands, neither. Harpy hide is tricky stuff. It can be sticky or slippery, depending, and you cain't never forget that it wants to get at you. Because it surely won't."
"Then how do you ever get it off again?"
"Oxygen. Pure oxygen neutralizes Agent X-puts the meat right to sleep."
Freddy piped up. "Carbon monoxide works, too."
The man looked at him strangely, said, "That's true, but that'd also put us to sleep. Forever."
The truck left the densest concentration of Xombies, and the ride became smoother. The only sounds now were the engine and the slash of foliage against the sides. They lurched left, turning sharply up a marshy path and trundling over a downed chain-link fence. Bumping over a curb, they were suddenly back in civilization, the parking lot of a small shopping center. EASTSIDE MARKET said the anchor store, and adjoining it were a chain video outlet and a drive-thru bank. Across the parking lot stood a large pharmacy.
The leader announced, "Last stop! Ever'body off the bus." When the boys started to get up, he said, "Not you. You boys need to stay down, out of sight."
Men had been hard at work here already. Every shopping cart in the place was lined up outside the market, fifty or more, all laden with groceries. There were also rolling pallets covered with larger bulk items: huge bags of rice, beans, flour, sugar, and hand trucks stacked with more cases of goods. They had cleaned the place out. A second duck boat was parked across the lot, its crew busily raiding the drugstore.
"Daaamn," whispered Kyle. "They got a major operation goin' here."
"Yeah," said Sal.
"If they can walk around out in the open, what they need all this food for? And where they takin' this stuff? They got enough here for an army."
"I think you answered your own question."
The leader shouted, "All right, load 'em up."
The truck's fleshy canopy was pulled back, and a small crane was deployed, winching the goods up onto the deck. Not everything would fit. There would obviously have to be several more trips. The men didn't seem to be in any hurry. It took half an hour just to stow this one load and make sure its weight was distributed evenly.
Though it appeared that they had dodged the main body of Xombies, every now and then a straggler or two wandered in, sensing the boys and running across the parking lot. The first time this happened, they flipped out, pointing and shouting hysterically: Ohmygodlookout! By the third time, they just watched mesmerized as the terrifying fiends out of their worst nightmares, unkillable demons that had terrorized them and destroyed the world, were methodically harpooned and dragged by an electric reel to the back of the vehicle, where a bunch of them already hung, flopping helplessly.
"Like a string a catfish, ain't it?" One of the men laughed.
Freddy asked, "What happens if a lot of them come all at once, like before?"
"We'd just have to drive you boys around the block and lead 'em off. They're pretty dumb. Normally, we don't even see 'em-it's you they after."
Then the loading was finished, and they all took seats as best they could amid all the sacks and cartons. The boys felt strange to be surrounded by so much food when they had been hungry for so long. If the guys on the sub could see this! The thought reminded them that it was becoming late; they were overdue. Would Kranuski sail without them?
The engine rumbled to life, and they drove back down the embankment the way they had come, back to the train tracks. In a moment, they were out of the trees and in sight of the big railroad trestle. Turning aside, the driver eased them down the steep bank of the river and straight into the water. Plunging heavily downward, the truck settled deep, bobbed upward, and became a true boat.
Sal suddenly had the crazy thought that perhaps they were being returned to the submarine. Could it possibly be that all this food was for them? Was there some alliance between these men and those on the sub? He didn't dare say anything, not wanting to jinx his wildest hope that the terror of the last few hours was finally over. That they were safe.
As the amphibious truck scudded downriver toward the bay, its ugly-masked captain asked, "Now, what you boys doin' here?"
Another man said, "They come off'n that submarine, Marcus, I told you."
"Shut up and let them tell it. We know you boys come off that sub; the question is why?"
Sal hesitated. He thought it might be dangerous to mention that they were refugees from MoCo-the Mogul Cooperative. The place up north from which they had all barely escaped and which had left them all with grim souvenirs of their brush with corporate governance: permanent scars on their foreheads… and deeper scars on their psyches. It was more than likely that these men worked for the Moguls. He stumbled for words, but before he could speak, Kyle answered, "Hunger, dude. Provisions."
"Provisions?" The man spoke the word as if it was a foreign language. "What do you think we been doin' here for the past week but gathering trade goods? You don't but have to load 'em on board."
I knew it! Sal thought. He had no idea who this man thought they were, but he nodded, and said, "Oh, okay. Cool."
"But they just set you ashore, anyway? To play tag with them blue monkeys?"
"We needed food."
"Son, food's about ninety percent of what we do. They's already near on two hunnerd tons of it sitting on the Mobile Bay just waitin' to be picked up. I don't get it. Somebody's confused here, and it ain't me. Now, let's try this again real slow: Did they really send you out in your shirtsleeves on a little shopping trip, or is it that you was lookin' for something else? Down that tunnel back yonder, maybe?"
"I'm really not sure, sir. We have a new commander, and things have been a little… confused lately, so I guess maybe they forgot to tell us something."
The men shook their heads and made sounds of contempt. "So you're just out here rustlin' up some grub? Some bacon and eggs, maybe? Some Malt-O-Meal? Shit, son, I guess they don't like you much. What'd you think them signal fires was for? I suppose you don't know nothing about that tunnel back there."
"We don't."
"That look like a Piggly Wiggly to you?"
"No, sir. We-"
The man jerked his chin up at a Xombie jutting from the vehicle's saw-toothed bowsprit. Sal was shocked to realize that it was Lulu. "Or this little cutie right here-ain't she about the tamest Harpy you ever seen? Now why is that? See, that tunnel was booby-trapped eight ways to Sunday-anybody goin' in the front door would get flushed right out the back. We done had it staked out for three days now, just in case some person or nonperson of interest might happen along and trip the switch. Like this 'un here."
Sal now had a pretty good suspicion of who these men were, upon whose mercy they were depending, and it didn't look good. These had to be the foragers, the worker ants at the bottom of the Mogul pyramid, the ground troops in the war for groceries. Slaves to the machine just as he and the other boys had briefly been slaves.
"Don't tail me you don't know what I'm talkin' about, boy."
Before Sal could stop him, Freddy Fisk piped in. "We know her. That's Lulu Pangloss. We had a bunch of Xombies like her on board. They're different because they all get shots of Lulu's blood, and it acts on them sort of like, like Ritalin or something."
"Her blood?" the awful face asked, leaning in. "Run that by me again, son."
"Dr. Langhorne gave her something-I don't know much about it, but they call it the Tonic. Ow!-lay off! She and the other Xombies were sent ashore separate from us because nobody knew what they would do on their own. If they came back, I think Dr. Langhorne was hoping to use them as a foraging squad."
The men's eyebrows rose at this; they looked at each other. One of them mouthed the word Tonic, and another, Langhorne. Freddy sensed the heightened interest and suddenly wondered if he should have spoken so freely, rubbing his arm where Kyle had pinched it.
Trying to limit the damage, Sal cut in. "But we don't know anything about that tunnel-we were just on the run from Xombies." He became choked up. "Most of our party's been wiped out."
The circle of gruesome helmets stared silently at them for a long minute, eerie as witch-doctor masks, then one of the men asked, "Why you boys on that submarine in the first place? Since when does the Navy give out free kid-die rides?"
Sal replied, "We helped fix it up for a refugee ship. Our dads worked for the submarine company."
"You the leader?"
Sal hesitated, but when none of the other boys spoke up, he said, "I guess."
"I figured, 'cuz you seem to be doin' most of the talkin'. What about the rest of y'all? Why you got them scabs on your foreheads? Look like a bunch of damn Hare Krishnas. And I still don't understand how come they sent you out like this, pedaling damn bicycles! Just don't make no damn sense. Something ain't right, and I mean to find out what."
Kyle replied, "It's the first time we've gone ashore, sir. The city looked empty. I guess we just weren't expecting so many Xombies."
Ray Despineau spoke for the first time all day. He was a quiet, shy boy, made quieter and more introverted by the loss of his family. On the boat he rarely spoke to anyone but Sal, and only in the gloomiest tones. This had become something of a running joke among the other boys, which had caused Ray to retreat even further inward. In monotone, he said, "You bump your head a lot on a submarine."
The men burst into gales of laughter.
Helmet bobbing, the Texarkanan said, "Shit, son, you made my day. Well, all right, then. Don't you worry none about it. Don't make a lick a sense, but I suppose it'll all come out in the wash. In the meantime we-all gone be buckaroos. Shee-it, boys! Where the hail are my manners? We ain't even been properly introduced. Name's Marcus Amos Washington, but they call me Voodooman. You'll have to excuse us if we don't shake your hands, but it might be a little hard to turn loose again. My second-in-command here is Mr. Righteous Weeks."
"Greetings, boys," said Weeks. "Marcus won't tell you how he got his name, but I will: It's from the prize bull he rode to win his first championship belt-one mean mo'fuckin' steer name of Voodoo. Nobody else ever went the full eight seconds on that devil, not even in the professional circuit. That was goin' on twenty years ago, when Marcus warn't much older'n you boys and green as grass, so you can take that as proof that anything's possible in this here world-hell, look at us now. Lemme hear you shout: Yee-haa!"
Looking at each other, the boys feebly replied, "Yee-haa."
"Come on now," Weeks prompted. "YEE-HAA!"
"Yee-haa!"
"That's just pitiful. Let's show 'em how to do it: YEEEE-HAAA!"
"YEEEE-HAAA!" all the men whooped, shooting pistols in the air and outwhooping each other.
While this was going on, Sal happened to notice that the tide was running at its peak. If Mr. Kranuski's plan still held, the sub would likely be on the move. But since it couldn't submerge until it reached the open sea, they could probably still catch it if they tried. He had to yell to be heard above the din: "Sir? Could you just tell me, are we going back to the boat now?"
"The boat?"
"The submarine."
"What's your hurry, son?"
"Well, they told us they were going to sail with the tide, and we're running pretty late."
As though reassuring a small child, Voodooman said, "Now, don't you worry none, we gone get you to your boat… all in good time. Meantime, you just set a spell."
Sal didn't like the way he said it.
"Here are your new quarters," Kranuski said, opening the door to the executive-officer suite. "Don't ever say I never did anything for you."
Alton Webb went inside, nodding appreciatively. It was nothing he hadn't seen before, but it was finally his. Quite a leap for a guy who never expected to be promoted above senior chief, much less become a commissioned officer, lieutenant grade-and now the ship's XO, no less. It would have been a dream come true if it all wasn't just more proof that everything had gone to shit. That devalued the achievement somewhat.
Webb looked around the little cabin, cozy as a first-class train compartment with its fake wood paneling, personal desk, bunk, and cleverly stowable sink. His whole body was tense with anticipation.
"Ah, my old room." Kranuski sighed jokingly. He had been in there less than three months. "So many memories…" He tapped the bulkhead as though petting a loyal old horse, then ran his hand down to the handle of an adjoining door. It opened onto a tiny shower compartment that connected the XO quarters with his new command stateroom on the opposite side.
Looking at the floor, Kranuski jerked back with a start.
"That head's been in here."
"What head?" asked Webb.
"What head? The head! That fucking head! Fred Cowper's head!"
"I thought it went down the TDU."
"That's what Langhorne originally said she did with it. Now I'm not so sure." Kranuski fidgeted for a moment, scanning the nooks of his quarters. He could barely look at Webb; suddenly he felt dangerously vulnerable, as though he had made a critical error in chess. Gathering his composure, he asked, "How are the preparations coming along for getting under way?"
Webb was studying him closely. "Everything looks ship-shape. We ran a test on the A induction valve but couldn't trace the glitch-probably a bad sensor. The tube itself seems to be working all right. Other than that, all critical systems are in the green. The tide's just hitting peak. If we pull anchor now, we can run right out on the current."
"Good. No word on those shore parties?"
Alton Webb's broad face remained blank. "No, sir."
"All right." Kranuski sighed. "Prepare the bridge for surface maneuvers. Get everyone on station. Let's get the hell out of here."