Rich Kranuski was in the belly of the ship, the "snake pit," looking for the source of a particular glitch that kept cropping up in one of the pressurized hydraulic manifolds, an area classified as a "hazardous system" because its failure could jeopardize the boat. No one else had been able to trace the problem, and he had finally taken it upon himself to have a look. Without being able to dismantle the system, there was not much point to looking except perhaps as an act of self-abasement, a final wallow in the mud before reinstating Coombs and placing himself under arrest.
It was better than being on the bridge with all those eyes on him-anything was better than that. Everyone was so strange all of a sudden, watching him as though he was some kind of monster, and the aft section had become so quiet. The boat felt empty. He couldn't stand it.
Poking around the subflooring, a region called the Yellow Brick Road for its painted blocks of lead ballast, Kranuski shined his flashlight up into the jungle of pipes and braces under the auxiliary machinery room. That was when it would have been really useful to have a crew of experienced chiefs on board. Unfortunately, I don't.
Somewhere nearby, he heard a splash. Sweeping his flashlight aft across rippling puddles of oily bilgewater, he saw something like a blurry white octopus slip out of sight between two swash plates.
Shit, he thought. There you are.
"Cowper?" he called, feeling at once terrified and ridiculous. "Come out and show yourself."
For a moment there was nothing. Then, from the shadows came a low moaning sound, like a Siamese cat. It almost sounded like words, but Kranuski couldn't decipher them. Another fluttering splash.
"Hello?" he said. "Come out, or I'll shoot." Feeling his way aft under the low ceiling, he crept toward the source of the noise.
He was beginning to think the thing had disappeared, that he had lost it or it had never been there at all. Impossible. Then, in a corner, his flashlight beam picked out a white bulge, half-concealed in the nook beneath a rusty gusset plate. It was pulsating, wet, and slimy. It can't be, he thought. It's fucking absurd. He cocked his service pistol.
Nearing the spot, Rich could feel his gorge rise. The thing-whatever it was-was in a blind hole; he had it cornered. For better or worse, he was about to come face-to-face with the cause of so much fear and despair over the last three days, the thing that had not only brought the ship to its knees but made him question his very sanity. He aimed the gun, point-blank.
"Fr-Fred?" he croaked softly. His heart was slamming so hard it hurt his chest. "It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you…"
Cautiously approaching, keeping the object centered in his flashlight beam, he squeezed into the space with it… then stopped. Kranuski's anxious face flushed, collapsing into a frown-What the hell? Letting out his breath, head throbbing, he stepped over the intervening steel frame and picked the thing up.
It was a ball of dripping wet rags in a white handkerchief, on which eyes and a mouth had been crudely drawn with grease pencil. The bundle was fastened to a length of nylon fishing line that ran up through an access panel in the floor above.
Incredulous, unable to form a coherent thought, Kranuski followed the line up, sticking his head out the opening in the next deck.
"Sorry, Captain," said XO Webb, and hit him in the head with four feet of galvanized pipe.
"Oh shit," Freddy squeaked.
"It's them."
Sal nodded, trying to control his drumming heart. His first thought had been Xombies, but Xombies didn't have attitude. These things were posing out there like comic-book characters. Not mindless Harpies then, but the blurred figures of demonic, coal black goddesses… or rather, goddess impersonators: Tarbabies. K-Thugs. Worshippers of the Hindu goddess Kali-the Black One. Pitiless arbiters of their nightmarish New Age religion.
One of them took a last drag from a cigarette and flicked it overboard. "Come on out, babies," he called. "Joo-hoo! Stop comparing dicks and get out here. That chamber ain't no toy-it's off-limits. You done got us outta bed, so you best come out and explain what you think you doin'."
"No way," hissed Sal. "Fuck that-fuck it. Everybody take your weapons and get ready to make a run for it."
"Don't be stupid," Todd said, "they'll blow our brains out."
"I don't see any guns, do you?" Sal unsheathed his samurai sword. "They don't carry guns." With two great swings, he hacked an X in the tent wall, nicking the inflated support columns so that air started whooshing out. Todd tried to grab him, to hold him back, but their skinsuits bristled at the contact, folds of flesh ruffling wildly and knocking them apart. It was like touching a live wire.
"Guys!" Ray shouted. "Something's wrong with Freddy!"
The smaller boy was on the floor having some kind of seizure, his stumpy legs kicking and his hands clawing at his throat. There was a gap between his helmet and the rest of his suit, and Sal realized that he had not fastened the helmet's mesh cowl down properly: the collar of Freddy's flesh cape had tightened on his exposed neck like a noose. The Xombie skin was strangling him.
"He's choking!" Ray cried. Suddenly Freddy leaped to his feet in panic and dove for the tent flap. "Stop him!"
Sal tried to tackle Freddy around the legs but was unable to get a handhold because of the repulsion effect. He knew that if they let the kid get away, he was going to die, but nailing him was harder than catching a greased pig. Ray and Todd flung themselves at the boy from both sides, trying to knock him down and rip his helmet off, but Freddy had the inertia of pure panic, bowling through them and tumbling to the deck amid the encircling Kalis. Caught off guard, the convicts leaped back in surprise from the convulsing, flesh-suited figure at their feet.
"Help us!" Sal shouted at them, as he and the other two boys scrambled clear of the collapsing tent. "It's killing him!"
Ignoring their plight, Chiquita demanded, "Why you little fuckers dressed like this?"
"We wanted to be Reapers," Sal replied frantically, unable to remove Freddy's helmet. "We thought we could impress you! Hurry, please help him!" The younger boy was already unconscious, possibly dead, which meant that in a few seconds he was going to become a Xombie.
Chiquita's eyes narrowed to sharpened flints behind the baleful leer of her mask. "Joo lie to me? Oh no, I don't think you wanna lie to me. Peoples that lie to me will never lie again." He removed his massive syringe from its arm clip, squatting down and pressing the tip against Freddy's constricted throat. "It's very inneresting," he said. "If you die inside this suit, what do you think happens?"
"Help him, or I'll kill you!" Sal cried, rearing up with his sword. Suddenly a loop of rope came out of nowhere, dropping over his upper body and yanking him backward to the deck-it was the actual Reapers, standing above on the container stacks. Roused from their beds, they were out of sorts as well as out of costume, plying their rodeo skills in fanciful silk pajamas. More ropes came down over the other boys, the Reapers jumping down to secure them, careful not to touch the twitching flesh of their suits. There was no sign of Voodooman.
"Now watch," said Chiquita.
Hovering over Freddy's lifeless body, the hideous masked figure waited like a vulture for him to suffocate. It wasn't long. Suddenly Freddy's grisly patchwork armor started moving, seething, writhing against its stitches as though trying to rip itself apart. The stitches began to tear, bleeding blue, and all at once the hood flap popped off and skittered away across the planks, revealing Freddy's gaping Xombie face. One of the Tarbabies nailed the escaping skin with the sharp heel of his boot.
Freddy exploded-that's what it looked like. He erupted to manic life, a half-baked gingerbread man, his living armor attempting to tear itself loose from him… and he from it. But because every part was simultaneously recoiling from every other part, it had no way of breaking free except to rip loose of the staples and leap into space.
Twisting every which way, Freddy's bones snapped like twigs, his body flailing around the deck in manic convulsions, jerked in fifty directions at once. He rolled into the midst of the K-Thugs, and they went to work on him, trimming Freddy like a side of beef. The tattered remains of the living cloak tried to worm away, dragging pieces of mesh, but the savage Kalis squashed it underfoot like Italian peasants making wine. The other three boys screamed, begged, and finally had to turn away, weeping.
Righteous Weeks came down. Rappelling by his lariat to where Sal lay defeated, the big ex-con kicked the boy's sword away and leaned over him, peering through the scorched eyeholes of Sal's helmet.
"If y'all gonna be honorary Skinwalkers," he said gently, "first thing you gotta do is fetch your own skins. Can't be wearing another man's rig-that is a serious violation of Reaper etiquette."
"Damn straight," said Chiquita. "Every suit gotta be tailor-made; otherwise, it ain't gonna fit right, maybe pinch a little around the neck. Ever heard of pick your own lobster?" He knelt over a hatch in the floor and wrenched a rusty bolt aside. "Here it's pick your own Harpy." He pulled back the heavy lid.
The three boys were dragged over so they could see down inside. The dark space below was filled with a thick gray substance resembling petroleum jelly. Within those murky depths, countless pale blue human shapes slowly tumbled and thrashed, their actions impeded by the dense grease. One of them rose into the light, glistening under a thick layer of translucent goop.
It was Voodooman.
Taking up a long-handled gaff, Righteous said grimly, "We been through a lot, ain't we, Marcus? Sho nuff is a sorry world." To the boys, he said, "Take this as a lesson to you. This is what you get when you cheat your friends. Least I thought we was friends." Planting the pole on Voodooman's forehead, he pushed him deep under the muck. "Consider it an initiation: Every Reaper got to skin and dress they own Harpy. Ain't no ready-to-wear in this outfit, no off-the-rack, not when it comes to a real live ghouly suit. Just like you don't want to trust no fool to pack your parachute, every man gotta take responsibility for dressing his own self. We all strickly custom-tailored. Now, which one of you's gonna be first?"
"First to what?" Todd snarled.
"Why, jump in and fetch one."
"Fuck you," said Sal.
"Hey, looks like we got us a volunteer."
As the Reapers busied themselves maneuvering Sal over the gruesome well, the other two boys' attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere.
From over the barge's high gunwale, through a gap in the barbed wire, a mass of alarming newcomers appeared. Fluidly as serpents, they started spilling down onto the deck. Human yet inhuman, shapeless yet terribly familiar, mottled blue and fluttery-quick, with black smudges for eyes and gaping pits for mouths, they rose up to loom behind the hooded figures of the oblivious Kalis.
Sal saw Chiquita turn his head as if sensing something and found himself literally face-to-face with a hulking great Xombie. It was Big Ed Albemarle, dripping from the sea and still clutching his rusty hammer. Beside Albemarle were men and boys with whom Sal had once been acquainted, all deathly blue and slimy with algae: Julian Noteiro, Lemuel Sanchez, Cole Hayes, at least a dozen others who had died at Thule and been resurrected, recruited to serve Dr. Langhorne aboard the sub. But they were not Langhorne's creatures, they were Lulu's-Lulu's guys, her Dreadnauts. They had not come for Sal. They had come, finally, for her.
"Holy shit," Todd muttered.
"Damn," Ray said.
All hell broke loose.
The Kalis were quick, incredibly fast, and Sal realized why these people had survived for so long. They were the end product of a ruthless process of elimination that had begun months before, weeding out the weak and the reflex-impaired. Anyone who had to think twice was an early casualty. Those remaining were the cream of the crop, the instinctive stone killers, the naturally gifted who could practically kill in their sleep-a veritable Olympiad of murderers.
But the Xombies were quicker.
As a spatter of gunfire rained down from the upper decks, Chiquita swung his machete at Albemarle, slashing the bigger man's throat to the bone, but Albemarle indifferently clocked him with the hammer, shattering his mask and the skull beneath, catching Chiquita's limp body in his huge arms. Face revealed, Chiquita was a chinless man with bad teeth, born Roy Ortiz in La Paz, Mexico, who had invented his female alter ego in homage to his beloved mother Chiquita. Roy was one of the few K-Thugs who had been a cross-dresser even before the Agent X plague, even before jail.
Ed Albemarle opened his mouth wide-a bottomless pit as dark and cold as the vacuum of space-and covered Roy's lower face, sucking the air out of his lungs. The man's bony chest collapsed with a familiar, sickening crunch. Absorbing the Xombie's vitalizing infection, Roy's dead body swelled with manic energy, breaking away and landing on all fours like a human tarantula, bugged-out black eyes darting for prey.
In the first skirmish, half the Kalis went down, and the others appeared to be equally doomed, waiting only for their brothers-in-drag to pop back to life for the battle to be over. But they were far from resigned to their fate: Not only were they expert hand-to-hand fighters, armed to the teeth. They were also shielded from Xombie assault by their repellent coating of black ichor-this in addition to their molded carbon-fiber masks, steel neck braces, and twelve-gauge shotgun loads embedded in their Kevlar-padded false breasts. To hug one of them was to trip a Claymore mine.
The short lag time was enough to make it an unexpectedly equal battle: The Xombies were more occupied with subduing their immediate victims than with defending themselves against the remaining K-Thugs, who knew exactly where to strike in order to undo the undead.
One by one, Xombies fell thrashing to the deck, their major tendons severed at the roots and a compound of white phosphorous injected into their chest cavities with gas-powered morgue syringes that the Kalis kept strapped to their forearms for just such an occasion. A potent weapon under any circumstances, white phosphorous had a particularly lethal affinity for Maenad body chemistry: Any ghoul so injected rolled around spewing incandescent foam from its nose, mouth, ears, and other orifices, its body swelling up and erupting like a grade-school science project until it abruptly collapsed into a puddle of burning grease. The deck quickly became a filthy abattoir awash with Xombie gunk and slithering remains. From above, red specks of laser sights darted amid the action, exploding whatever they touched.
But very quickly-shockingly quickly-the Xombies were back on the offensive, their numbers replenished by hordes of new arrivals, as well as all the active severed limbs and body parts squirming underfoot. Such chunks now became a significant hazard, flopping around like rabid squirrels and latching onto passing ankles, scrabbling up under robes. Freddy's revenge. The battle became desperate, a chaotic scrum of flying blades and swearing futility, so that any second the boys expected to wind up alone on deck with an orgy of ghouls.
Momentarily left alone, Sal, Todd, and Ray quickly managed to loose their slipknots-but there was nowhere to go. They were surrounded, trapped in the bottom of the barge with grisly combat raging in front of them, their backs to a sheer, twenty-foot-high wall of shipping boxes that comprised the lowest tier of the pyramid. There was no cover, nowhere to run.
"What the fuck do we do now?" hissed Todd.
"Take a number," Ray said. "They'll call us when it's our turn to die."
Struck with a duh moment of inspiration, Sal said, "Wait, I thought these suits were supposed to protect us!"
"Not from Reapers."
"No, that's my point!" Gathering up the slack lariats, he wound them around a cleat and dropped the lassos into the open grease pit.
Trying to stop him, Todd said, "Hey! What do you think you're doing?"
"Leggo!-you're right, it's not Xombies we need to worry about."
"Yeah, but I'm not ready to trust my life to this suit-thing didn't come with no warrantee."
"It's our only chance!" Sal said. "We have to get past them to the boats!"
"Riiight," said Ray, nodding dully. "With those assholes up there shooting everything in sight? Awesome idea."
"Most of them just got out of bed-they don't have a clue what's going on. They're not paying any attention to us because they think we're Reapers. The only ones who know the truth are too busy fighting to do anything about it."
There was a sudden eruption from the bilge-a fountain of splattering grease as Xombies started spurting out like newborn reptiles. Crowding each other, drooling slime, they clambered over the suited boys, shoving past them toward more likely subjects.
Ray freaked out a little as Voodooman crawled over him: "Sick, man-don't touch me! Oh my God, oh my God…"
"Follow me!" Sal shouted, bolting. Todd shrugged and followed.
Ray thought, That's crazy, but if Todd was going, so was he. No way he was staying behind with these nasty things popping up out of the deck like disgusting fetuses. He grabbed his samurai sword and ran.
The deck was a vision of hell, demons alive and dead closing in on every side, and Sal didn't think they were going to make it. The boys hacked wildly, neither knowing nor caring if those they chopped down were human or otherwise. Then they were pushing through incoming Xombies at the rail and vaulting over, Sal's flesh mitts giving excellent purchase as he clung to the rope netting on the opposite side.
Shit-it was a longer drop than he'd thought. But the boats were there: several dozen light watercraft of various types-Jet Skis, Zodiacs, Boston Whalers-all moored around a string of bright yellow pontoons chained to the barge. Todd was already clambering from one pontoon to the next, heading for a pod of Jet Skis at the end.
Jumping down to the wobbly platform, Ray looked at Sal through their cactus-headed helmets, and said, "Whoa. Some grip, huh?"
"Yeah, sticky. Move your ass." Sal glanced up to see armed Reapers descending by nets from the upper decks. The shooting let up while their comrades were in the field of fire. It was now or never. He followed the other two across the bobbing footbridge. Todd had managed to untie the mooring line that held all five Jet Skis together, keeping three while the rest drifted off on the current. Ray got on the second one.
"You better let me on back," Sal said. "I never rode one of these before."
"Are you serious?"
"No-I'm into bikes, not boats. Move over!"
"You can't-our suits can't touch."
"Just let me on, and we'll figure it out!"
Todd snapped, "No! Just get on one and do what I do!"
Sal reluctantly straddled the third craft. "What now?"
"It's like a motorcycle: Turn on the ignition and throttle up." He revved the handle. "Okay?"
Sal tried it, nodded. "Okay."
"Now follow me."
They started forward, accelerating upriver. As soon as they cleared the shadow of the barge's hull, spurts of water began popping up all around them. One banked off the cowling of Sal's Jet Ski, leaving a deep gash. Oh shit, he thought, ducking low.
But the shooting was sparse, disorganized, and fell off sharply as they moved out of close range. Obviously, the Xombies were the primary concern. The boys went faster as they got the feel for how the Jet Skis handled, really punching the gas as they passed the bogus paddle wheeler and made for the sheltering arches of the I-195 highway bridge.
Sal stared up at the floating casino's towering superstructure, searching for any sign of Kyle in its upper windows. He knew the boy was probably dead, but the possibility that he was still alive and being tortured for information while they rode away was almost unbearable. If only he would see them and jump out a window, so they could pick him up. Come on, Kyle, come on…
Then, incredibly, Sal saw something, something that made him slow to a puttering idle. There was a bright reflection on the glass, but for a second he could vaguely make out a face looking down at him from the highest window… then it turned away and was gone. Letting out his breath, Sal gunned his water scooter beneath the bridge and around the thick stone abutments to where Todd and Ray were waiting on the far side.
"We made it, man!" Todd shouted as he pulled up. "We really made it! Holy shit!"
Ray asked, "How we ever gonna get these suits off without that oxygen tent?"
"Cross that bridge when we come to it!"
"We did just come to it."
"Oh man! This is excellent!" Todd was beaming, shaking his head in wonder. "So that's it, dude, that's it! We ditch these things and head back across town to the rafts, then hit the boat and tell the skipper everything we know. Should be a cakewalk now… long as the boat's still there." There was a hitch in his breathing, and suddenly he started to cry. The suddenness of the meltdown seemed to catch him by surprise. "What the fuck, man," he sobbed.
Sal knew exactly what he was thinking because he had the same thought: Thirty-seven down, three to go. Taking a deep breath, he said, "You two go ahead without me. I'm not leaving just yet."
Trying to collect himself, Todd didn't register the words. "What?"
"I'm going back for Kyle."
"You're what? He's dead, man."
"I thought I saw him just now, when we passed that other barge. I don't know if it was really him or not, but I can't just leave him behind-not when it should have been me up there. I already left everybody else; I don't care about what happens to me anymore. I can't face going back to the boat if I don't at least try."
"Are you crazy, dude? It's suicide! What the hell you think you're gonna do?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, great plan."
"What I do know is that in this suit I might be able to pass for one of those Reaper assholes. They're all tied up fighting Xombies right now, so there won't be any better time. I'll catch them with their pants down."
"So you're just going to sneak back, grab Kyle, and waltz right out of there?"
"Pretty much. You saw that casino-there's only a few guys there with El Dopa."
"That we know about." Dizzy with incomprehension, Todd said, "Don't do it, dude. We need you."
"I have to. I'm sorry. I know it's messed up. You guys go on without me."
"Fine. You know what? You suck. Go ahead-we're leaving."
Suddenly Ray spoke up: "Uh, Todd? I don't think I'm going anywhere." Sheepishly, he held up his gloved hand to show some blood on it. "I think I been hit."
It was true-Ray had been shot in the right side, the bullet passing through his Xombie oversuit and the various layers of material beneath. It was impossible to examine or treat the wound; the Xombie flesh puckered around it like a cat's anus. There was not much blood. "Just leave me here," he said glumly. "I'll only slow you down."
"That's it then," said Todd, unable to hide his relief. "Sal, you have to come ashore with us. I can't carry Ray back by myself."
Sal slumped, knowing he had no choice but to give in, to abandon Kyle just as he had abandoned all the others. He would have preferred to die, but Todd was right: Ray needed medical help. He needed both of them.
"Nobody's carrying anybody anywhere," said Ray, grimacing from the pain. "Sal's right. I'm gonna stay right here, and the two of you are going to go get Kyle."