El Dopa's eyelids drooped to mere slits. "Well, ain't that nice. Friends in need. Chiquita! Put out some milk and cookies for our young guests, would you? These boys look hungry." He clapped his hands.
The dancer scoffed, "Fuck you, I ain't putting out shit."
"How nice to know that in this vast, deserted wasteland, it's still possible to run across folks with mutual interests," El Dopa said lazily, waving at them to dig in to his pharmaceutical tray: candy-colored pills and capsules of every type. "Small world!"
The man's hooded eyes bored directly into Sal's, and the boy felt the skin prickle at the nape of his neck. There was an absence behind those eyes, a vacuum as harshly unforgiving as a black hole in deep space. Perhaps El Dopa had been a whole person once, but now he was damaged, shut down inside from having witnessed one too many unthinkables. Sal knew plenty of people like that, ghosts living in a ghost world, and one thing he knew was you didn't want them calling the shots.
"There's just one thing I don't understand," the wizened man said. "The timing. See, things have gone a little funny with our sponsor. We've had a slight… communications breakdown. I assume your people on that submarine must have a direct line to Valhalla, all that high-tech gear you got out there. Right? Can you also jam radio signals? Suddenly here you come along, and what's the first thing you do? Start poaching on our turf."
Sal jumped in, "No!-I mean, I don't think so, sir. The Navy officers don't really tell us anything, but I know the boat maintains radio silence almost all the time, so-"
El Dopa wasn't even listening. "I hope they don't think we're going to renegotiate our contract," he said. "Is that why you're here? Give us a little wake-up call? Introduce some healthy competition, a little competitive bidding? Are they unhappy with what we've been sending them? Think somebody else could do the job better? I'd like to see them try. Or maybe you're with a rival agency? Come into our territory and try to muscle us just because you think you so bad with that big-ass submarine? Is that it?"
"No, sir. At least, I don't think so."
"Boy don't think so. Well, there must be SOME explanation!" El Dopa flung his beer bottle at the floor, then subsided and pondered them for a moment. Shaking his head, he sighed, "I guess there's nothing for it but to call up Uncle Spam."
Eavesdropping, Chiquita said, "Why you gotta do that? I had enough of that creepy spider. He don't say shit no more."
"Now, baby, he is still our esteemed company agent-the only one we have. Don't worry, I'm not sending you." He clapped his hands. "So let it be written, so let it be done." Abruptly dismissing the visitors, he took up the mike and started singing again: "Cortez was a gangsta, a measure of thanks ta, conquistador killa in the biblical mold… bust a cap in the Az-tecs, dust the map what he did nex', and played Montezuma for a room of pure gold…"
The dancer's leering mask was fixed on them, something out of a nightmare. "The audience is over," Chiquita said. "Get out before somebody carry you out."
"Oops," said Voodooman. Hustling the boys away, he said, "I guess he'll call for you in the morning. For now, you guys just enjoy the party. That's what it's for. If anybody mess with you, tell 'em you're under the special protection of the Skins."
The boys nodded agreeably, but as soon as Voodooman was out of sight, they felt scores of predatory eyes on them. Kyle, feeling particularly ogled, said, "Let's beat it the hell out of here, please," and they began to move back toward the exit, huddling close together. The faster they moved, the more unwanted attention snowballed around them:
"Hey, baby, how you doin'?" "You stepped on my foot, bitch." "Shit, you fine, girl." "Oooh, honey, come on over here, show me that ass." "Lookee here, bitch, lookee here…"
"Hey now, what's your hurry?" It was another one of the heinous dancers-one of the more convincing ones. He planted himself in their path, his buttery-soft voice cutting through the gauntlet of cruder remarks. The boys were forced to stop in their tracks.
Taking out a cigarette and accepting a light from the crowd, the dancer took a puff through his mask's leering bloody mouth, and said, "You boys won't let a few hardened criminals chase you away, I hope. As you can see, they're harmless. We have a strict hands-off policy."
Fending off a rough grope from the mob, Sal said, "We're-hey!-under the protection of the Skins-"
A brutal voice drooled in his ear, "I don't care who you under, bitch! You under me now, punk."
"Shut up, Carl," the dancer said, his muffled voice suddenly dropping an octave, "unless you want me to use your boiled skull for an ashtray." The other man retreated under a gale of jeering laughter. Resuming his composure, the dancer purred, "How do you boys feel about flaming Zombies?"
"Excuse me?"
"The house drink." Not waiting for their reply, he said, "Get these lads some drinks." A dozen men ran for the liquor. The other convicts immediately lost interest and drifted away.
Desperately hopeful, Freddy said, "You can control them?"
"It's the feminine mystique, what can I say."
"But you're not a real woman," Kyle said contemptuously.
"Shh!-don't tell anybody."
"Then how come you let them do you like this?"
"Do me? Who's doing who? Listen and listen good: I'm not some punk gal-boy from the joint, I'm a straight-up K-Thug Original, a Kali Dolly after the Black One herself. Old school, baby-the oldest. In case you hadn't noticed, women are synonymous with scary shit nowadays, and us Tarbabies are the scariest motherfuckers of all. Put on this uniform, and it's like the red on a black widow spider: Nobody better fuck with you, not unless they want to take on the whole Dollhouse."
Sal asked, "I don't understand. What are you supposed to be?"
"I told you: Kali-goddess of destruction. Mother of the Thug cult. That's where the word comes from, son."
"Like Lassie, you mean?" Freddy asked.
"Not collie, stupid," said Todd. "Kali-K-A-L-I."
"How'd you guys come up with this?" Kyle asked.
"Originally some of us started dressing in drag because Major Bendis told us it might act as camouflage against the Harpies. Didn't work, but it gave us a certain social clout, which was nice, and also a sense of power-fighting fire with fire. As anti-X defenses improved, we incorporated them, so that we're running pretty state-of-the-art right now. Those bulky skinsuits the Reapers wear are old technology, strictly 1.0, but they had trouble enough getting used to that; they're not about to change. The Kali thing came after-it was El Dopa's vision, his way of unifying us."
"So you guys believe in all this?"
"Ain't a matter of belief, honey-it's pure survival. Rule number one is that the best defense is to protect your airway, don't give 'em an opening, so face masks are a no-brainer. We started with hockey masks, but learned pretty quick that Harpies play rough; a few straps are no deterrent. So some of us volunteered to make the mask permanent."
"Permanent?" The boys' hackles went up.
"Absolutely. Drill a few anchor bolts in the back of your head, nothing to it. Valhalla sent us kits with all the instructions. Really, everybody should do it-it's a matter of public safety. But try getting a lot of these guys to agree on anything, much less wearing a muzzle. That's the problem with democracy. Likewise, not everybody can stand to cover themselves with ichor. It sticks permanent, but there's no better repellent."
"Ichor? You mean that body paint?"
"It's not paint. It's not ink, either. It's blood-Harpy blood."
The boys got their drinks-huge flaming rum cocktails that looked inordinately delicious. Under pressure to keep things polite, they guzzled the fruity concoctions and immediately got a pleasant buzz. More rounds of drinks arrived, and with the alcohol came relief from worry. Feeling safer, they began to accept the finger food that was being passed around: enormous trays of oily pickled peppers, sausages, meats and cheeses, tinned cookies and fruit-cake. Some of them also accepted smokes from a bounty of hand-rolled cigarettes, though Sal bitched about this. Meanwhile
, the drinks kept coming. Helpful people guided them to truckloads of designer clothing, amazing stuff, and in vited them to take anything they wanted. There was a curtained nook for changing, and the boys gratefully shed the filthy clothes they had been wearing for months and replaced them with whole new wardrobes of exotic finery.
Modeling a Matsuda jacket, Kyle said tearfully, "Dude, I have been hurting for some phat threads." He emerged to great applause.
"I think I'm wasted," burped Freddy, swaying a little.
"Yeah," Sal said, head swimming. He was breaking out in cold sweats. "We gotta get out of here."
"No way, man," slurred Kyle. "I ain't nearly done."
"Me neither," said Freddy.
"Yes you are. We gotta go while we can still walk."
Kyle turned on him. "Fuck you, Sal, fuck you. You ain't tellin' me what to do. Don't you fuckin' lay hands on me, bitch. This ain't the fuckin' boat-ain't nobody gonna tell me what to do. I had enough."
"You've had enough all right," Sal said. The men around them were starting to take an interest, smirking. He tried to nudge Kyle along, whispering, "Don't do this, man. Not now, not here."
"No! I said no! You got my brother killed-I don't know why we ever listened to you in the first place. You can have that fuckin' submarine, I'm stayin' right here. I like it better here."
Suddenly all the attention shifted away from them to a commotion nearby, an explosion of shouting and cheering. Sal was trying to use the diversion to usher the others out of the room, when Todd said, "It's Lulu."
Freddy stopped. "Lulu? Where?"
Ray mumbled, "They got her nailed to a board."
"They can have her," Sal said. "Come on!"
"I thought you dug her."
"Maybe when she was alive. Shut up and move!"
Across the room, Sal could see several men carrying an X-shaped wooden frame through the crowd, stirring up a hornet's nest of excitement. There was a naked blue body affixed to the planks-Lulu's body. She had a jeweled tiara jammed onto her head. Groping hands swarmed over her as she passed.
Sal's guts churned. He had gotten off to a bad start with Lulu Pangloss, refusing to acknowledge her authority over the boys on the boat-who did she think she was?-and then holding her at least partially responsible for everything that had happened since, including the death of his father. But in his heart of hearts Sal knew that Lulu was just a convenient target: The Last Girl on Earth. He resented her because it was safer than admitting he might like her-that would have been too pathetically hopeless, joining her goofy clique of admirers. So he had avoided her… and thereby avoided her fate.
Craning to see, Todd said, "What the hell are they doing with her?"
"I'm not sure I want to know," Sal replied, running out of steam. The alcohol was starting to really hit hard now, and he could barely see straight.
The boys stopped their unsteady flight, sensing that they were no longer the main attraction. As they watched, the men laid Lulu on the floor and were pushing back the clamoring mob.
"Back off!" a huge man yelled, firing a pistol into the air. He was wearing a wizard's outfit, complete with pointed hat. "You'll all get your chance!" He held up a roll of tickets and began handing them out. "One to a customer! Everybody gets one who wants one! Pass 'em around!" One of the tickets filtered back to the boys. It was numbered and looked like an ordinary raffle ticket.
Lulu still looked dead, or perhaps unconscious; in any case she seemed very small and harmless, her pale blue skin luminous as Krishna, with the black crescent of her forehead scar making a sleeping third eye-the antithesis of a raving, feral Xombie. She looked like a fairy princess. Still, the men weren't taking chances: They had nailed her down good and sewn her mouth shut to prevent any possibility of the dreaded Xombie kiss.
Now the wizard mounted the stage, and said, "Gents, we've all seen this little sleeping beauty since she come in this evening. Some of you been wondering why she's so meek and mild. How come she looks like a china doll instead of a bat-faced freak like all the others? The answer is, she ain't no ordinary Harpy. She's special. We found her in Miska's hidey-hole, and I got it on good authority that she's had a touch of his secret dope. She been living in harmony with regular folks, crowded together in a damn submarine, and they're none the worse for it. Look at those boys over yonder-they're the proof! Out riding bikes in the world as if they got some special gift. They'll tell you that just today she was out fetching kindling with them like a good Girl Scout. Point is, she ain't neither dead nor alive, but she's the best of both worlds… at least for our purposes."
A raucous cheer went up, and a few loud objections: "She's just another damned Harpy, preacher!"
"Yeah, what kind of stunt you trying to pull?"
The preacher replied, "She's more than a Harpy, for one thing. She's one of the Anointed from Miska's own test bed, a vessel into which he poured his elixir. Don't you understand? Fools!-that makes her body a font in which we may anoint ourselves. Look at her! Can anyone here deny she's different from the rest of that cursed society out there-all the people that judged us, and were judged in turn? This may be God's will that delivered her to us, and who are we to question His judgment? We been given dominion over this Earth and all the creatures on it, or did you forget? Her unclean loins have been sanctified, purified, and may be our path to salvation. Manna from heaven!"
Other men tried to argue further, but were booed down. This was a rare amusement.
Businesslike, the preacher said, "Now I got here a box with all your numbers in it. We gonna pick as many as we can fit in a night. If your number ain't picked, don't worry-we'll get to you tomorrow night, or the next. Put some mileage on this filly before the Man wants her back!"
The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.
"Okay, here we go: Number 13886!"
A huge, goateed man who looked like a TV wrestler threw up his fists and roared, "Yes! Yes! Fuck yeah!" He pushed through the cheering crowd, accepting their congratulations, then stood over Lulu and shouted, "This one's for the balcony!"
All eyes turned upward to see an odd figure peering down from a caged window in the topmost tier: a hooded man in dark sunglasses and a ski mask. The crowd fell silent, and the boys could hear people muttering, the Major, the Major.
"Who the hell's that?" Kyle asked.
A bystander replied, "That's Major Bendis-we call him Uncle Spam. He's our military advisor, our company rep: Everything comes through him. Only we ain't seen him since he got quarantined."
"Quarantined for what?"
"He almost got killed a couple days ago when we first got here-I guess it fucked him up pretty bad. Led an assault on a building where he thought Miska was hiding and just about got his ass blowed off. Anybody else, they would have left him ashore-you can't take chances with that shit-but he's our only link to Valhalla, so his men patched him up and brought him back. You don't argue with those boys on the B Team, not if you like your skin. Luckily, we don't see them much. Bendis was the one who sprung us from the joint and trained us to survive like we doin'-a hard motherfucker. Used to be some kind of mercenary commando, ex-Special Forces. We all figured him for a basket case, but maybe he's starting to heal up. Oh shit, look at Joe Earl."
The raffle winner was making a show of stripping off his snakeskin boots, swinging them around his head, and tossing them into the crowd to gales of wolf whistles. Then he got down to business. Snapping the kinks out of his joints, he had started to unbuckle his belt when suddenly there was a loud burst of gunfire. Everyone turned.
"Get the fuck off her," Kyle Hancock said soberly. He was holding a gold-plated Tec-9 machine gun with a banana clip, part of the Xmas display. "Unless you want to lose yo dick."
Kyle stepped forward, the crowd parting before him.
"I'm asserting my prerogative as an official representative of MoCo," the boy said. "That girl's Mogul property, and she's part of our mission, whatever it is. I don't know her purpose for being here; they don't
tell us those things. But whatever it is, it's got nothing to do with being molested by you motherfuckers. So put her back in the hold or the brig or wherever the hell you got her from, or I swear to God I will empty this clip on y'all's Dolce and Gabbanas."
Men stood frozen, as if waiting for a signal. They weren't afraid, just fascinated by the turn of events. This was a new one. Suddenly there was a sound of applause from above-Uncle Spam's black-gloved hands were slowly clapping.
El Dopa nodded from the stage, and whoops of jeering amusement rose from the crowd as Joe Earl skulked away. The tension collapsed. Without a word of protest, the preacher's men hustled Lulu out of sight, and the party resumed in full force. All at once, the boys found themselves totally ignored.
Kyle hesitated, unsure of what to do next. The gun was too heavy to keep holding up. "So is that it?" he asked shakily.
"Yeah… I think so," said Sal. "Nice going. You ready to leave now?"
"Hell yes."
They dropped the gun and ran.
By early dawn, the party was over. Except for a lot of snoring, the barge had gone still. Sal and the other boys were sprawled in the bunks with their clothes and shoes still on, dressed for a quick getaway, squinting in their sleep against the painfully bright pinholes of daylight from outside. Freddy's pillow had a damp crust where he had vomited. There was a loud knock at the door.
WHAMWHAMWHAM!
"Huh?" Sal came half-awake, head throbbing miserably. "Hello?"
"Get up, punk!" It was the crabby Kali impersonator, Chiquita. He banged on the door again, then kicked it open, knocking aside their makeshift barricade. His neck was unshaven under his black mask, and his shaggy headdress was up in curlers. "What the fuck is this shit? Joo been summon to have breakfast with El Dopa. Hurry!"
Apocalypticon x-2 Page 17