"You'd know if you'd turn off that racket." He meant the music. Albemarle complied, barking an order that was relayed back to the deejay. The boy, having come down for the commotion, mounted the crawler and killed the sound. At once it was possible to hear the faint sputtering of gunfire outside. Everyone in the room became transfixed.
"I'm telling you," said Cowper, "we have to get 'em out of here, Ed. Beau Reynolds is dead, and Security ain't gonna hold that fence for long. It's up to us now. We gotta move, and fast."
A few people reacted strongly to the news of Reynolds's death, but Albemarle spoke over them. "Move where?" he said. "There's a lockdown in effect-no unsupervised activity. Set foot out of here, and we'll be shot on sight."
"We're the least of their worries, Ed. This is our chance, while they're putting every available man on that fence."
"Our chance to do what?"
"Get down to the pen."
"Down to the-Oh no. Are you serious? You gotta be shit-ting me."
"Why not? Take 'em by surprise, you never know."
"Jesus, you are serious!"
"You got any better suggestions? The only other alternative is to wait for what's coming over the fence. I guarantee nobody else gives a damn about you, certainly not Sandoval."
Albemarle replied wearily, "You know, Fred, they shot Bob Martino for that kind of talk. Shot him in front of everybody after the big dinner, then trussed him up and burned him, right there-you can see the spot. I'll never eat another steak. So if you think we have any illusions about our chances with the company, think again. But we've lost so much already… we're tired. I'm tired. All I want to do at this point is let these kids be kids for however much time they-" He was interrupted by a dull boom that rattled the walls. Dust sifted down.
Over the stunned murmuring, Cowper said, "Time's up, Ed."
"What do we got to lose?" This was shouted by a tall elderly fellow with white hair and a bushy mustache.
"He's right," said a stocky character like an old-time circus strong man. "We're fish in a barrel sitting here."
Albemarle became angry. "And what? We just march our kids out into the line of fire?"
A number of boys cheered the idea.
Cowper interceded, holding up his arms to yell, "Nobody's gonna get shot!" The crowd hesitated, listening. "They're not stupid enough to shoot us, all right? They're busy enough without making a whole mess of creepos inside the fence. That's all they'd accomplish by killing us, and they know it." To Albemarle he explained, "You said yourself they burned Bob Martino. That means they knew he would have come back. We're more of a threat to them than they are to us, and that's the God's honest truth. Best they can do is keep us locked up in here, alive. Now who wants to go and who wants to stay?"
It was a landslide. Even Ed Albemarle grudgingly nodded, causing a cheer.
In the midst of the excitement, I bit my lip and tapped Cowper on the shoulder. Trying to speak privately, I said, "Um, Fred? How can we get out if we're locked in here?"
He smiled thinly and patted my head. "Don't you worry about a thing."
Getting out of the building was a piece of cake. Albemarle dispatched a handful of the bigger boys to a supply room, the "tool crib," and they returned with armloads of welding and cutting implements that they obviously knew how to use.
"Hey, Mr. Albemarle," one of the boys said, looking like a blacksmith as he donned protective leathers. "Is there an SSP for this?" The joking question raised a laugh.
"Yeah," Albemarle shot back, "Shipyard Standard Procedure says kiss my ass. In case you hadn't noticed, we're not doing things by the book anymore. So stop screwing around and get that door open."
The door he meant was not the door we'd come in through, but the sixty-foot-high hangar doors. They'd been secured by a mammoth chain strung through holes in the metal like something out of King Kong. Trundled up to it on a rolling scaffold, the boys applied their blinding blue flare to one of the bagel-thick links, making a tremendous zapping sound and showers of sparks. "Don't look at it," Cowper said, a little late. Steel dripped like burning tallow, then, just like that, the chain clanked apart.
"All right, roll 'er open!" Albemarle bellowed. "Everybody behind the Sallie, heads down! We're going on parade!"
The "Sallie" was the deejay's platform. It was a freight-carrying goliath, all wheels and deck (the word SALLIE cast in steel above its low front cockpit), which started up with a ground-shaking rumble and rolled forward on nine rows of tires. It reminded me of the vehicle NASA used to transport spacecraft to the launch pad, though somewhat smaller. Men and boys fell in behind its twin rear cab as it approached the parting doors. When it passed us, Cowper and I joined the crowd.
"Stay close," he said, pinching my bicep.
People gave me plenty of room, so that for once I didn't feel claustrophobic, as I often did in groups. In fact, I was able to take comfort from the sheer size of the crowd. We were an army.
"You're not coming," someone said to me from behind, but I ignored him and kept moving.
We streamed out of the hangar at a fast walk, the crawler bearing right to make for the inner guardpost. It was deserted. The main gate was behind us, mostly hidden by buildings, but we could hear the commotion there-sounds like rioting hooligans with firecrackers-and see the dim orange glow of flames illuminating the draped fence like a paper screen, on which life-size shadow puppets danced. Men could be glimpsed running along a catwalk at the top, dodging mangled hands that lunged spastically at them through the razor wire.
After seeing a guard yanked into the lacerating coils by those obscene blue things, I didn't dare look back anymore, covering my ears to muffle the screams. A wave of gibbering fear swept the crowd, causing some boys to fall and almost be trampled, but Cowper and Albemarle kept yelling, "Eyes forward! Keep moving! Eyes forward-look where you're going!" and it seemed to help even though we could barely see where we were going.
Heading down a grassy slope, we descended into gloom, with pale, unlit buildings rising like sunken ships out of the fog and our only illumination the haloed caution lights of the Sallie. Smells of seaweed, tar, and diesel exhaust mingled in the air. It was a strange, ghostly parade all right, with the Sallie its unadorned float.
"What's it like out there?" asked a boy to my left. He was the one in the chipmunk costume, and was carrying its head under his arm. It was a blue-collar chipmunk, I noticed, with work boots, protective goggles, and a plush hard hat. From the boy's intensity, I realized he meant the outside world.
The question set me off again, and I found it very hard to reply. Eyes dribbling tears, it was all I could do to shrug, turning away to wipe my face on my puffy sleeve.
"That's pretty much what I figured," he said bitterly. "How did you get through?"
I wasn't going to get into it. "Ask him. Where are we going?"
Before he could answer, another boy said, "You'd know if you belonged here."
"Don't talk to her-she's a freak," said someone else.
"You see any other women with us? That's 'cause they were quarantined. We had to leave 'em behind-"
"Sisters, mothers… all of them."
"-all gone, and you think you comin'? Uh-uh."
"Wait a minute," I said, trying to stem the hostility, "I didn't ask to come here. I'm just along for the ride."
This was the wrong thing to say. The reaction was so vehement that some of the adults cast puzzled and annoyed looks our way. Frankly, I would have appreciated any adult intervention, but the grown-ups were deeply engrossed in heated business of their own. I resented Cowper for letting himself be monopolized this way.
We passed through an open gate and entered a field of massive rusty cylinders, large as redwood trunks. Above them, disappearing into the fog, loomed a huge inert crane, a skeletal Godzilla guarding her eggs. The Sallie stopped, and with it the abuse directed at me. Everyone's attention was suddenly focused on something down the road, some kind of winged black monolith with giraffe-speckled antennae sproutin
g from its crest.
"Is that what I think it is?" I asked. No one replied.
It was a very, very big submarine.
CHAPTER SIX
As if dismissed from school, the boys broke formation and surged toward the sub. I was swept along in the rush, taking comfort in being momentarily ignored, lost in the crowd. Albemarle was yelling, "Hey! Hey! Wait!" but it wasn't until the shooting started that we all stopped short.
There was a bright spike of automatic-weapons fire from the vicinity of the submarine. I couldn't see much, caught in the sudden pileup, but I could hear an amplified voice bellow, "HALT. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA. WE ARE AUTHORIZED TO USE DEADLY FORCE, AND WILL NOT HESITATE TO DO SO UNLESS YOU TURN BACK NOW. LEAVE AT ONCE." As the voice spoke, a harsh spotlight cleaved the mist, probing us like a boy stirring ants with a stick.
People fell back behind the Sallie or jammed into the shadows between rusty cylinders, and as I took refuge in just such a trench amid dozens of grease-smelling boys, I lost touch with Cowper. A squall of curses and complaints arose from the gang, leading me to believe all hope was lost. Then they turned on me: "You and that stupid old man! Shoulda known he was fulla shit! What are we gonna do now? Let them Marines fry our asses? " At once I was being manhandled, shoved from hand to hand out of the hiding place into the searchlight's bullying glare.
Then I was alone in the road, feeling very small beside the multiple tractor tires of the Sallie vehicle. One of my shoes had come off, and I could all but taste the cold, coarse macadam through my thin stocking. The spotlight was warm. In a reverie of hurt feelings, I shielded my eyes and began walking toward it. Fine, I thought madly. It felt good to let go. Tears streaming, I walked faster and faster, aware of nothing but my own feet and the baking noonday light. Swelling orchestral music seemed to accompany me, as if I was expected to break into some showstopping Broadway tune.
Suddenly someone snatched me off my feet and dove with me out of the light. As we hit the dirt I had a strange, strong sensation of being tackled by Santa. Then my senses returned, and I realized it was only the padded costume that made me think of Santa-it was the boy in the chipmunk suit (as if that was somehow less bizarre). Over his furry shoulder I could see row after row of great wheels lumbering by, close enough to touch.
"Sorry," he said, trying to catch his breath. "Jesus, you okay?"
My cheek stung from being scuffed on the ground. I wasn't sure what had just happened, but as the Sallie passed entirely, I saw the flattened chipmunk head in the middle of the road. Sitting up, I said, "Did you just apologize for saving my life?"
"Oh, sorry-I mean-" Before he could say more, rattling bursts of automatic gunfire broke out at the waterfront, and he threw himself on top of me, crying, "Geddown!"
But they weren't shooting at us. They were shooting at the advancing Sallie. Gleaming under the spotlight like a monstrous sowbug, the flat juggernaut maneuvered drunkenly toward the sub, where orange-vested figures could be seen running for cover. The gunfire was coming from a white Humvee parked at dockside, which was being used as a gun rest by two men in Darth Vader helmets. Flashing jets of ammo speared out from them in a twin stream, gouging nickel-bright pocks all over the crawler and leaving red afterimages hanging in the air.
The boy's body shuddered at each volley, his face screwed shut against the racket. "It's okay, it's okay," he said, more to himself than to me. He was heavy, a big guy who needed a shave, but even without his mask, he had a chipmunk quality that made me want to pet him and say, "There, there." For all the noise, I was strangely calm and couldn't bring myself to turn away from the action though I was afraid any moment a stray bullet might catch me in the eye.
There was no stopping the thing. At the last possible second, the soldiers gave up shooting and retreated to the submarine's gangway. Their Humvee disappeared from view as the hulking tractor closed with it and bowled it over the edge of the landing with a junkyard crash. Continuing on, the Sallie then struck the pivoting base of the gangway, buckling the narrow span like a Tinkertoy and causing the guards to fall out of sight. And still the machine kept on, jutting out farther and farther into space, making its own bridge to the submarine. I held my breath for the impending, catastrophic fall-Penis Patrol-but the Sallie stopped there, half its wheels frozen in midair. The sub's searchlight stayed trained on this precarious object as if staring in disbelief.
A voice issued from the deejay equipment left on the Sallie:
"THIS IS COMMANDER FRED COWPER, REQUESTING PERMISSION TO COME ABOARD."
A man emerged from the Sallie's unscathed rear cockpit and stood holding a wireless microphone. He wore a stunning white military uniform, with black and gold epaulets and a cluster of medals over his breast pocket. In spite of the fog, the distance, and the masterful new costume, I could see at once that it was indeed Cowper. No wonder he almost ran me down-he had been driving backward. Amazed, I pushed the boy off and stood up. Hundreds of others were coming out of hiding around us, equally bemused, murmuring in the dark.
The submarine's loudspeaker replied, "FRED, THIS IS COMMANDER COOMBS. I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, BUT IN MY BOOK IT'S TREASON. YOU ARE INTERFERING WITH CRITICAL NAVAL OPERATIONS."
Cowper said, "HARVEY, THIS WAS NOT MY ORIGINAL PLAN, BUT I'M TRYING TO MAKE THE BEST OF A BAD SITUATION. HERE'S THE DEAL: LET ME AND ALL THESE PEOPLE ON BOARD, THEN PUT US ASHORE SOMEPLACE HALFWAY SECURE. IN RETURN, WE'LL EARN OUR KEEP-I KNOW YOU'RE SHORT OF HANDS. THESE KIDS WILL DO ANYTHING YOU TELL 'EM, PLUS WE'VE GOT A CREW OF OLD FARTS WITH DOLPHINS WHO ARE JUST ITCHING TO GET BACK BEHIND THE WHEEL. HEY, I'LL RE-UP. WHERE ARE YOU GONNA FIND ANOTHER GUY WITH MY EXPERIENCE?"
"I'M NOT BIG ON EXTORTION, YOU SENILE SON OF A BITCH," said Coombs.
"WHAT EXTORTION? IT'S A HUMANITARIAN GESTURE. NOT TO MENTION KEEPING FAITH WITH THESE PEOPLE… AND ME, FOR THAT MATTER. SANDOVAL PROMISED US-TAKE IT UP WITH HIM IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT. THE BASTID IS THERE, ISN'T HE?"
"AS A MATTER OF FACT HE'S OVERDUE. IT WOULDN'T SURPRISE ME TO HEAR THAT YOU AND YOUR MOB HAVE KILLED HIM."
"I'M TRYIN' TO SAVE LIVES, YOU ARROGANT PRICK, BUT IF YOU DON'T START LETTING US BOARD RIGHT NOW, I'M GONNA BACK THE SALLIE OVER YA AND SCUTTLE THE WHOLE SHEBANG. WE GOT NOTHING TO LOSE." Cowper ducked back into the low glass cab and started the engine. To us he announced, "ALL ABOARD! NO RUNNING! BOARD THE BOAT IN AN ORDERLY WAY-THE CREW WILL DIRECT YOU BELOW… OR ELSE."
We were already moving. After the first tentative steps, boys stampeded past, too rushed to give me a hard time. I could see that the collapsed gangway didn't slow anyone down-apparently it was just as easy to hop down from the concrete ledge to the guano-caked timbers alongside the sub and from there to the stern, where a plank had been laid across. I just let myself be dragged along. Everyone else was on fire with the instinct to survive, but I felt listless and totally out of it.
Fighting the malaise, I tried to blend in with the rest as I waited for Cowper, staying close to Albemarle and the other men who were shepherding the stragglers. Below, I could see the two fallen Marine guards being fished from the water by the submarine's crew-the guards both looked shaken but alive. Other sailors were helping boys across that finger of dark water. They didn't look particularly resentful of us, which I found reassuring.
It was a surprise when some of them suddenly pointed weapons up at the landing and began to shoot. We were sitting ducks.
The gunfire caused shrieks of terror, and everyone dropped to the ground. No, I noticed, some of us didn't duck, didn't stop, but simply charged ahead with manic fury. They didn't look right. These were the ones the sailors were shooting at. There were blue people among us, and many more coming down the hill.
Exes. Xombies.
Not everyone was as slow on the uptake as I-Albemarle and the other men had already created a defensive line at the rear of the crowd and were brandishing large hammers like those used for chiseling. I would learn that these were standard equipment at the plant. "Don't panic," they shouted. "J
ust keep moving!" When a skinless creature in burnt security clothes rushed up through the fog, they all raised hammers like Thor and clouted it down. The problem was, it wouldn't stay down, but rebounded off the pavement like a dented gingerbread man.
"It's Reynolds!" someone screamed.
"Just like you're marking studs, boys," shouted Albemarle, pelting the thing again.
More monsters came tearing in, nimble as stage-painted acrobats. Keeping them off required a kind of assembly-line operation, a constant gauntlet of flying hammers, but our hundred-to-one advantage was quickly eroding. In places the line started breaking up into fractal eddies of hand-to-hand fighting. To the boys up front, who were taking their sweet time boarding the sub, these must have seemed more like fringe disturbances at a rock concert than a desperate losing battle, but for us at the rear it was doom breathing down our necks: medieval combat and middle-school fire drill rolled into one.
Then Cowper was at my side, splendid in his dress whites. "Don't get trampled!" he shouted over my head, "We'll make it!"
"When did you manage to change your clothes?" I asked.
"I always come prepared."
"We can't all fit in that submarine."
"Sure we can," he said. "You see those big cylinders by the road? Those used to hold ballistic missiles, but they were taken out to make room for cruise missiles and SEAL teams. That refit's been postponed indefinitely, which leaves a big empty space inside the missile compartment-you'll see. Don't worry."
I wished he looked more confident himself.
As the last of us were helped down from the platform by furiously yelling submariners-"Get out of the way! Down, down! Move your asses!"-the amount of shooting redoubled, and I was shocked to see how many Xombies were massed on the landing above. We were becoming outnumbered. Spent shells tinkled down the sides of the sub like slot-machine tokens, and icy water splashed me as bullet-riddled demons stage-dived off the edge to fall into the depths beneath the pier. The water was soon packed with thrashing bodies.
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