Apocalypse blues x-1

by Walter Greatshell

  CHAPTER TEN

  No matter how squeamish you are, getting rid of bodies breaks down to a job of heavy lifting. The novelty of cool, rigid flesh wears off, and you realize how awkward they are to move, how darn heavy. After a dozen or so, they're no more fearsome than the baggy old futons my mother always made us drag from apartment to apartment. "Come on, lazypants," she would cry, as I buckled under my half. "Nearly home!"

  Finding every Ex was a grotesque Easter egg hunt, made more difficult by our breathing equipment in the tight spaces. Since operating the boat took precedence, corpse-gathering was relegated to the boys and me, under the supervision of a whiskery old character named Vic Noteiro. He knew every possible place to check, and was perfectly happy to let us do the checking while he made himself comfortable and told anecdotes about his days painting submarines. "Guys kept sayin' I should retire," he said. "Retire from what? Sittin' on my ass all night listening to the radio? Makin' twenty bucks an hour? Whenever ya feel like it, ya slap on a coat of Mare Island? Pure titty."

  Then the question was how to dump them overboard. No one knew if exposure to air would cause them to revive, but we didn't want to find out, even if it meant we had to "suck rubber" awhile longer. In the meantime the bodies were weighted, bagged, and trussed like mummies. That was awful because they had lost their blue pallor and looked vibrantly alive-much more rosy-cheeked than any of us. "It's the carbon monoxide is all," Vic told us dismissively. "They're stone dead."

  A skeptical-faced boy asked, "How can the carbon monoxide affect them if they don't breathe?"

  "Who said they don't breathe? They breathe. They're like plants: They absorb what they need through every pore. No actual respiration, but they do breathe-just a lot slower, like them yogis in India. For all we know, they're in Nirvana now."

  There were fourteen Xombies altogether-ten from the crew (actually twelve crew members had been lost, but two conveniently fell into the sea), the two Marine guards, and two from our crowd. When we had them all lined up in the big mess hall, Kranuski and Cowper came down to look. Vic had identified each one with a Magic Marker, and a man named Kraus ticked them off one by one: "Boggs, supply officer; Lester, weps; Gunderson, the nav; Montoya, communications; Lee, sonar chief; Baker, cob; Henderson, quartermaster; Selby, machinist's mate; O'Grady, torpedoman-" He faltered, clearing his throat. "Shit."

  "I know," said Cowper. "When you've worked with a man, it's hard."

  Kranuski snapped, "It's not that. What about the tubes?"

  Cowper nodded carefully, as if treading on shaky ground. "I was thinking of that. Will your people accept it?"

  "It's burial at sea. Better than dumping them down the TDU."

  "Okay. I'll make an announcement-"

  "No announcement. Sorry, sir, but you're the one who told me not to get hung up on ceremony. Let's just get this over with."

  Cowper agreed, and they went back upstairs.

  Not sure what we were doing, I helped carry all the corpses down another level to the torpedo room. This was frustrating because we had just dragged three bodies up from there, plus our oxygen tanks, and it was hard not to brain yourself with those masks on. Shiny forest green torpedoes with blue caps were stacked in cradles on either side of the aisle. Straight ahead were four elaborate chrome hatches with dangling tags that read, TUBE EMPTY. Noteiro yanked off the tags and opened the round doors.

  "Stuff 'em in there," he said, raspy-voiced. "Move it!"

  We managed to pack three bodies in each tube. There was a huge piston that helped ram them in. Since I thought torpedoes ran on their own power, I wasn't sure how these were going to be launched, and watched closely as Vic shut the tubes and went to a wall console with a padded stool in front of it. Headsets of different colors hung from a bar under the lights; he put on a pair and adjusted the controls. There was a hollow sound of water rushing through pipes.

  "Flooding tubes one… two… three… and four," he said. "Tubes one through four ready in all respects." A moment later there was an explosive whoosh, unnervingly powerful, then three more hair-raising blasts in close succession. This was something even the boys had never seen. A bit shaken, we loaded the last bodies into one tube for a final firing. Then it was done. I couldn't say what I was thinking: Like flushing goldfish.

  The next thing that happened nearly made us forget our exhaustion and all the night's ugliness: the diesel engine rumbled to life again, this time sucking fresh, cold air into the sub. Boys were so happy they hugged each other. They even forgot themselves and hugged me. Unfortunately, though most of the poison was gone in minutes, we were told to leave our masks on until every compartment could be ventilated and inspected for residual pockets of gas. This put a damper on things.

  Since the boys and I were not trusted with this duty, we were left to wait in the crew's mess, our breathing gear plugged into jacks on the floor. We sat nodding off in the blue-upholstered booths like winos at an all-night diner.

  "I've had it," said a maniacal freckle-faced guy with Creamsicle orange hair and white eyelashes. "I'm not wearing this mask another second!" Then he went right back to sleep.

  Ignoring him, Chipmunk Boy asked me, "What's your name?"

  "Lulu. Louise. Louise Pangloss."

  "I'm Hector Albemarle." He offered me his furry mitt and I shook it, feeling silly. Pointing at the others, he said, "That's Tyrell Banks, Jake…"

  "Bartholomew," moaned the sleeping guy.

  "-Jake Bartholomew, Julian Noteiro, uh, Shawn Dickey, Sal DeLuca, Lemuel Sanchez, Ray Despineau, and Cole Hayes."

  Most of the boys acknowledged me in some way as they were introduced, nodding or at least glancing over. They were quite a mixed bag. You get to know someone pretty fast when sharing a chore as miserable as body-snatching, and I had formed distinct impressions of all their personalities:

  In spite of the costume, Hector was mature for his age, brave, a peacemaker, and considered something of a nerd. I already liked him a lot though I was afraid of his stepfather, Ed Albemarle, with whom he had a prickly relationship.

  Tyrell was a goofy streetwise guy, but also a hard worker, who brightened up the job with his incessant funny griping. He joked about fusing country-western and hip-hop to create a musical opus called Westward Ho. This was some kind of running gibe at Shawn, who aspired to preach New Age mysticism through the medium of rap.

  Jake, too, considered himself a comic, dropping silly non sequiturs ("When I meet someone, I just like to know if they identify more with the Trix rabbit or with the kids. There's no right or wrong answer-take your time") that the others made no attempt to acknowledge, as if they thought he was a bore. He was sort of a spaz-I felt a little protective of him.

  Julian was all business, a straight-edger who acted like he knew the sub better than anybody and resented being the one to have to correct us. It was he whose suggestion about "piloting by scope" had been rebuffed by Albemarle up top. Julian was the grandson of old Vic, who derived a sly amusement from seeing the boy steam. Shawn, a laid-back skate-punk and poet, was sexy in a Madison-Avenue-exploitation-of-youth kind of way, a walking hipness barometer with piercings like chrome acne, who seemed fascinated by everything that was going on. Unfazed by Tyrell's jokes, he carried around a note-pad at all times, scribbling down lyrical thunderbolts as they occurred. He had been the deejay back at the factory.

  The other four were quiet and withdrawn, more obviously in shock: Sal was angry and said nothing that wasn't bitterly sarcastic-not that he said much. Ray was his best friend-I first assumed they were brothers-who spoke with a long-suffering weariness that reminded me of Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh. They both worked listlessly and had to be prodded to help.

  Lemuel was the huge kid I had noticed on deck. I had thought he was Samoan or some other Pacific islander, but found out he was actually Native American, of Narragansett ancestry. His mother had worked the buffet at Foxwoods Casino. He was very shy, perhaps distrustful, though his size and physical strength made him conspicuous
among us. He kept stealing glances at me.

  Cole Hayes was in his own world and barely took notice of us or anything else. It was like he was watching a movie only he could see. He did what was expected, but he was a tall kid and kept bumping his head on hangers and lights, reacting to the pain with an incomprehension that reminded me of King Kong getting strafed. I learned later that he had been a high-school track star from the projects in South Providence, courted by the best colleges in the country. His future had been a vision of paradise like no one in his family had ever imagined. Then Agent X came along.

  I returned their nods, hoping they were starting to overcome their suspicion. "Nice to meet you," I said in general. To Hector, I asked, "How long have you all known each other?"

  "Some of us went to school together, and I've known Julian and Tyrell a long time because our dads were friends. The rest I met up with for the first time at the plant, but we've all gotten to know each other pretty good since then."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "About a month."

  "And you know everyone by name?" I was terrible with names.

  "You learn it doing roll call twice a day. Plus it was kind of my job to get to know everyone-I was floor safety monitor."

  "Narc!" snorted Jake, the orange-haired kid, still feigning sleep.

  "Safety Squirrel," I said.

  "Yeah."

  "How did you wind up in the factory?"

  "It was really weird. We all got brought in under police escort, right before Agent X took off. It was Christmas break, and this big bus convoy goes to all our houses, picking everyone up like for camp or something, except it was the middle of the night. My mother and sister were freaking out thinking I was being arrested for something, until the security men told them my stepdad had authorized it-that there was something very important going on at the plant, and I was to take part. I think they gave her a note from him, too. We could see a lot of other guys already in the buses, so I started to think it might be some kind of lame father-son bonding thing sponsored by the company. As soon as they knew I was the guy on their list, they kind of raided my room, stuffed everything into duffel bags, and put it all on the bus with me. Sheila and my mom were standing out on the step in their nighties-I remember wishing they would go back inside, I was so embarrassed. That was the last time I ever saw them."

  He stared down at the fake wood grain of the tabletop, tracing patterns with his finger.

  He continued, "A couple of weeks into the whole thing, there was a rumor at the plant that old women and little girls hadn't caught the disease, and a bunch of the men demanded to leave the compound so they could search for family members who might have survived. It got pretty hairy before Chairman Sandoval finally agreed to let them try. We all wanted to go along, but they chose a couple of hundred adults and said that was enough. My stepdad was crazy to go, but they said he was too important." Hector slowly shook his head, the mask blurring his features.

  "They didn't find anyone," I said softly.

  "They never came back at all." As if brushing these matters aside, he said, "What happened to you?"

  "Um…" I was caught off guard. My mind had turned away from all that as from a stinging-cold wind, and I didn't know what would happen if I faced it. "I'm from California," I said noncommittally. "My mother and I came out here to find Fred Cowper."

  "That old guy who's in command? Is he your grand-father?"

  "I think he's my father. My mother was after him for child support. I never really knew him."

  The boy named Tyrell piped up, "Yo, that was cold, the way he turned you out to be bait for them Xombies."

  "Yeah," Hector told me, "but he brought you here. Don't count that out. I never got along with my stepdad, but he probably saved my life bringing me here." Avoiding my eyes, he added, "Anyway, I, I just wanted to apologize for before… the way some of those guys were treating you. That wasn't too cool; I should've done something sooner. I'm sorry."

  Why did he have to keep apologizing for everything? "That's all right," I said in confusion. Changing the subject, I asked, "How do you guys know so much about the sub?"

  The severe one, Julian, replied, "They don't know shit, but you live in a submarine factory long enough, it kind of seeps in by osmosis."

  Tyrell laughed. "Why you say that, man? He's fuckin' with you-they drilled us hard on that shit. Told us we couldn't go on the boat 'less we passed BESS."

  "Bess?"

  "Basic Enlisted Submarine School," explained Hector. "Of course it was all crap-the boat was never for us. They were just jerking us off to keep their workforce on the job until the refit was done, and they could ditch our asses. Almost worked, too… if you and Cowper hadn't come along." There was a long, drowsy pause, as if everyone was digesting this point. I couldn't tell if they were grateful or blamed me for prolonging their agony. Then, as my attention seeped away, I realized that their feelings were exactly like my own:

  They didn't care at all.

  Everyone awoke to Cowper's amplified voice ringing in our ears: "Attention all hands. Remove and stow EAB equipment-the air has been deemed fit to breathe. All nonuseful bodies-that's you kids-report to Mr. Noteiro in Stores. He'll show you how to whip up a great big batch a hot cocoa."

  The clock on the wall showed 3:45 A.M. It was blissful pain to rip off those masks and smell the sea air circulating through the sub. I was very thirsty.

  "Cocoa." Jake Bartholomew sighed reverently. There was a cherry red imprint around his face from the respirator.

  "That cocoa's not for you," Noteiro said gleefully, appearing in the galley. "You'll be servin' it up top. Chop-chop!"

  It was almost worth lugging a boiling-hot plastic drum up two flights of stairs and a ladder to see the reaction it drew. People had been huddled together for warmth most of the night, and no one had gotten any sleep. Sandoval-the man who'd hurt his leg jumping across-had moaned in agony the whole time, and apparently there had been serious talk of ditching him over the side. When they heard shots fired up the sail, then felt the diesel, there were surges of excitement, but as the night wore on, their hopes dimmed. Those of us who had gone below were written off as dead. The rest, lingering in that moonless vacuum like shipwreck survivors on a bare atoll, didn't expect to last much longer.

  When the forward hatch popped open, it was light none of them had ever expected to see again. Then to have us come up bearing hot cocoa, cookies, and blankets-we were treated like heroes, like some kind of miracle. Grown men wept and thanked God for their deliverance. The deck became a party.

  I say "we" were treated-actually the crush of congratulations centered on Hector and other guys, but he held them off and pointed at me. "She's the one you should thank," he said. "Without her, we wouldn't have nailed the Xombies."

  "No, it was obvious," I said demurely, and people were happy enough to take me at my word, thanking me only for filling their cups. Maybe they thought Hector was being facetious. Not that I expected thanks, even if the rest were feted like conquerors. A little help would have been good-since I was the only one not swamped with admirers, I succumbed to the insatiable demands of the crowd, doling out seconds and thirds. There was never a break until the spigot trickled its final sludgy dregs. "That's it! All gone!" I announced, sorry I hadn't set aside a cup for myself.

  "Dude!" exclaimed a stringy-haired character with many tattoos. "You're bringing up more, right?"

  "Not that I know of." I knew I wasn't-I could barely stand up.

  He jabbed his bony finger into my chest. "Well, you better! What are you doing here, anyway? Who is this bitch? I thought women were supposed to be off-limits-disease-ridden fucking vampires-and here you are in charge of the cocoa."

  Then others were pressing in on me, among them the boy in the hairnet who had harassed me before. "Little bitch thinks she's all that," he said. "She thinks we gonna forget how she come bustin' in here like she own the place, takin' up room that shoulda gone to our families. Now she's gonna r
ation out the supplies for us? It ain't happenin', uh-uh." He shoved the empty barrel into my arms, nearly knocking me into the sea.

  The last frayed thread of my composure broke with a loud mental twang, and I launched myself at the lead cretin.

  "Hey!" A frail-looking man in a suit and a porkpie hat caught me from behind, gently taking the barrel from my arms and putting it down like a stool for me to sit on. His eyes were large and intense, glowing in a face like dark-stained wood. Completely ignoring the boys all around, he said, "Your name is Lulu?" His voice had a mild Caribbean lilt.

  I nodded.

  "I wanted to thank you."

  "Thank me?" My brain was spinning.

  "For what you did below. I'm Hercule Banks, Tyrell's father. He told me what happened." Solemnly, he said, "You saved my son's life. I believe you saved all our lives."

  I wavered stupidly, mumbling, "No, I mean… um… thanks… you're welcome."

  He kissed his fingertips and pressed them to my icy cheek, then cast a baleful look at the boys. They shrank back, parting to make a path for him. As he ambled through, he tipped his hat at me, saying, "Praise Jesus."

  None of the boys would look at me after that, and soon they all melted away like wraiths into the dark. The feeling of that warm touch stayed with me much longer.

  Schlepping the empty drum down to the galley, I ran into Mr. Robles and was told to report to the command center. I just wanted to collapse somewhere and sleep, so having to climb two decks back up was a really dreary prospect. Who would have expected stairs to be such an issue on a submarine?

  The boat looked stripped. Everywhere I went there were raw-looking spaces where banks of computers and other equipment had been pulled out, leaving haphazardly bundled wires and bare struts. The second level was especially naked. I was to learn that most of the controls related to the vessel's function as a nuclear-missile platform had been there, removed many months before as part of some plan to keep the Cold War-era titan strategically relevant. When that all fell apart after Agent X, the sub was up for grabs.