Apocalypse blues x-1

by Walter Greatshell

  I still couldn't get over the size of it. The submarine was divided into three segments, each nearly two hundred feet long and forty feet high. Farthest aft was the propulsion unit-the massive steam turbines that drove the screw, and the sixty-thousand-horsepower General Electric S8G nuclear reactor that created the steam; then the hollowed-out missile room; and, finally, the CCSM deck-the five-story command-and-control module beneath the fairwater that extended to the sonar dome in the bow. It was a large underwater building.

  Cowper met me at the top of the companionway. Staving off my embrace, he handed over a big leather pouch, and said, "Take good care of this ditty bag-I've put a few things in there might come in handy. Don't let that Kranuski see it, whatever you do. Come on." Before I could reply, he began leading me aft, saying, "The natives are getting restless. I need you to communicate to them what I plan to do. Here."

  We were standing before one of the watertight doors to the missile room. He leaned his arm on the gleaming valve wheel and said in the nasal voice of an old-time elevator operator, "First floor: missile compartment. Ladies lingerie, sporting goods, household appliances, and other picture postcards." He pulled the door open, revealing that cavernous tunnel of cargo. "Be it ever so jumbled, there's no place like home. What do you think? Can we fit everybody in there?"

  I didn't see how. "It's going to be hard with all that stuff in the way."

  "Yeah, they turned her into a vault. A giant safe for all their crap. Anything they couldn't stand to leave unguarded when they closed up shop, and anything they thought they might need in the future. It's like a do-it-yourself kit for restarting America from scratch. They probably have the formula for Coke down there somewhere."

  "So what do we do?"

  Cowper either grinned or gritted his teeth, I couldn't tell. He looked incredibly old.

  "Heard of the Boston Tea Party?" he asked.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sun rising over the bay was like hot lemon and honey to the sickly cold multitudes laboring on deck. From a distance we would have looked like termites at work on a floating log, vanishing into holes and emerging with bits of stuff, then dropping it into the water. Or perhaps slaves of the pharaoh, dismantling a tomb rather than building one.

  In spite of Mr. Kranuski's and Mr. Sandoval's strenuous objections, a bearer brigade had been organized to clear the missile room. It happened before the crew could stop it-we were ten times their number and simply piled in, There was no fighting, and they didn't dare shoot anyone for fear of making lots of Exes.

  All the next week we remained anchored off the north shore of Conanicut Island, painstakingly passing things up the three logistics hatches one at a time. There was great incentive to work fast, because as soon as floor space was cleared, it became living space, which in turn reduced topside crowding. The only problem was that much of the stuff was too big to fit through the hatches and could only be rearranged below.

  "How did they ever get all this in here?" I asked Julian on the second day. I couldn't believe how much had been done while I was sleeping.

  "In port you can use a crane to lift out the entire escape trunk. Makes a much bigger opening."

  "There's no way to do it now?"

  "Well, we might be able to rig a scaffold and winch, but it's not something I'd want to try at sea."

  "Why not?"

  "Just feel. This thing rocks like a bastard. Swell kicks up, you could lose the escape trunk over the side. Then you're left with a seven-foot-wide hole in the deck, which isn't too good on a submarine."

  "I guess not."

  The boat itself was a breathtaking sight by day, a black peninsula almost six hundred feet long-longer, I was told, than the Washington Monument was tall. We were conspicuous in the channel, and a number of smaller vessels examined us from a discreet distance. We weren't alone out there on the water, and as the days went by, we saw more and more refugee vessels, trickling in from all over to gather like seagulls around a dying whale.

  A lot of boys were thrilled at the sight and desperate to join forces with other survivors, but word came down that we were to make no attempt to signal or in any way communicate with outsiders. If a boat tried coming to hailing range, it was warned off with a volley of gunfire. Many of us were unhappy with this, and we didn't even get an explanation because the command center was off-limits to all but "essential personnel."

  After that first night, a division had sprung up between the working adults and the "nubs"-nonuseful bodies. In practical terms it meant that everything forward or aft of the missile bay was off-limits. We had free run of that huge chamber and free topside access, but I felt vulnerable without Cowper and hoped he would make contact soon.

  I had been through the bag he gave me, and was incredibly grateful for the basic items he had packed: a wool blanket and knit cap, a windbreaker, a pair of blue coveralls (men's small but still too large for me), sneakers, and a waterproof survival kit with tissues, antiseptic wipes, bandages, tape, aspirin, eating utensils, small tools, flint, needle and thread, soap, penlight, and a compass. There was also an official-looking padded envelope, sealed with string, on which he had written, To be opened in PRIVATE! Privacy was a rare phenomenon; the only time it was really possible was in the head, and even then only if I could get someone to stand guard. Many already thought I used far more than my share of bathroom time, that my refusal to pee in public like a dog was some kind of finicky affectation. Ignoring their looks, I smuggled in the envelope and wasted no time ripping it open.

  Inside was a heart-shaped locket on a chain and a set of pictures. They were well-worn, as if they'd spent ages in a wallet. In the locket was a trimmed photo of a prune-faced newborn. Was that me? Had Cowper, proud papa, taken the photo? I picked it out and on the back someone had written, Terminal Island Nav. Shipyard, CA. On the margin was a meaningless notation: 4 ABL S FR 13. At first glance I thought it was some cutesy Valentine-candy sentiment-4EVER 2GETHER or something-then I tried deciphering it, but couldn't come up with any initials or abbreviations that fit. Something something Friday the 13th? I gave up for the moment.

  The other photos had nothing to do with me… and everything. They were older than the first, faded, and showed polyester artifacts from the seventies and eighties. They were of a younger Cowper with his family: a wife who was not my mother, a daughter who was not me. All of them aging through several jumps in time, the last one showing the pretty blond daughter in cap and gown. Years and years of happiness.

  This had been his life. He had lived his whole life before I was ever born, and by that time I must have seemed like such a bother. Been there, done that. And my mother? Had she come in at the end and brought it all down-the Other Woman? Could I honestly say I was surprised? Wasn't this exactly what I suspected all those years? I wanted to kick myself for the dumb-animal hurt I was feeling. No wonder. I fumbled the pictures back into the envelope and could barely hear the people talking to me as I left the head, suddenly desperate for fresh air. Yup, I thought, no wonder.

  As the missile room was gradually cleared, I found it astounding to gaze up from the lead-bricked bilge into those soaring cathedral heights. For twenty years it had contained a forest of twenty-four Trident missile silos, each one seven feet wide, extending through every deck. Its crews had been accustomed to jogging laps around its perimeter-nineteen to the mile. The "trees" were gone, the steel-grated decks perforated like a colossal Swiss cheese or ripped out altogether, leaving airy chasms surrounded by red caution tape. Fanciful assemblies of scaffolding and plywood rose like primitive cliff dwellings to the upper tiers, and it was up these we ported the endless tons of freight. Even though we worked in twenty-minute relays and labor-saving pulley systems were in place, it was the most exercise I'd ever known. I worried about getting a repetitive-stress injury, but said nothing.

  Perhaps because those first days were so uncomfortable, so full of head bumps, stair-climbing, and sleeping on hard floors, the awesome vessel quickly lost its mys
tique and became the "Motherfuckin' torture chamber of Jacques Cous teau," as Tyrell put it. But everyone took care not to grumble in the presence of the Navy people, who were understandably touchy and more than willing-in fact eager-to send anyone ashore who wanted to go.

  That was illustrated during one of our meager meals, when a group of kids began clamoring for seconds. They were the guys my mother would have called MABs-More Attitude Than Brains. It had already been explained to everyone that provisions were low and never intended to feed so many, but accepting this in the abstract and being faced with half a cup of grits, a slice of bacon, and a spoonful of fruit cocktail as the big meal of the day were two different things. Their complaints ignored, the boys started throwing the extremely short supply of dishes and silverware overboard.

  As the strike began to spread, the volunteer cooks (of whom I was one), were told to clear an area of deck, then stood by while Robles and a gorilla-chested officer named Alton Webb quickly inflated a large rubber boat. The vandalism subsided as this strange activity progressed. Then Webb took long-handled prongs and gleefully began stalking the crowd. "Who's going?" he challenged. "Come on! Who's not happy? Speak up!"

  This went on for an agonizing twenty minutes, as he singled out the ringleaders and made them beg to stay aboard. By the end I thought he had carried it a bit too far-they were groveling worms, puking in fear. I even felt sorry for the hairnet boy, Mitch, who got clobbered for mouthing off.

  At last they were put to work stowing the raft, cleaning the deck, and washing the remaining dishes in buckets of seawater. They were very careful.

  As the days went by, the number of people above dwindled, beginning with those who were ill or otherwise thought to be at risk from exposure. After sleeping both indoors and out, I actually found camping on deck to be preferable, not least because it was softer-the hull was slightly padded with rubber to make the boat stealthy-but also because by the fourth night it was a regular jamboree, with strings of Christmas lights, makeshift tents, hot-water showers, outhouses, and plenty of headroom.

  A semblance of privacy finally became possible. The top secret bales and boxes going over the side were raided for building supplies: cardboard and plastic for shelters; mattresses of bubble wrap or foam rubber; Styrofoam hobo furniture. Stacks of blast-hardened laptop computers were passed around like party favors.

  I did feel kind of bad about all this, as if we were doing something that could never be undone, but that was like saying our survival mattered less than a lot of blueprints and widgets and technical manuals.

  And the view up top was better. Looking at the serene shores of Narragansett Bay, I did not feel so encroached upon by the apocalypse. There was no visible destruction, just the ever-changing panorama of water, sky, and house-dotted landscape as the tides lazily swung the boat on its anchor chain. Gulls were always present, but we also saw cormorants and even fat white swans. Life seemed to be going on.

  I was not exactly "one of the guys" but Hector and Julian made me welcome in their clique, though it was obvious that my presence cramped their style. I'm sure it was a relief to them that I spent most of my free time catching up on Submarines 101, using materials Robles made available to me. Such technical material had never interested me before; perhaps I'd simply never had the incentive. Suddenly it was fiction I couldn't bear. There were DVDs for everything, and that terabyte-chomping military laptop was a welcome change from my old funky Pack ard Bell, still loaded with Windows 95. When I wasn't learning acronyms, I was helping Mr. Noteiro or Mr. Monte prepare and serve the twice-daily civilian ration.

  At night there was a lot of prayer, hymn-singing, and purging of grief. Just about everyone on board was either Catholic or Baptist. As an agnostic, I refrained from joining in these sessions though at times I went along with it to avoid drawing attention to myself. In the presence of religion or sports I've always felt like an anthropologist observing headhunters-best to keep a low profile. My mother had a religious side that I never found very attractive. Despite my care, it still became an issue.

  Five days in, I was approached to lead the group in prayer. It was a welcoming gesture, their way of saying I was okay, but it was a little much for me, and I begged off, citing stage fright. They wouldn't let it go, countering my every excuse until finally there was nothing left but to concede I was a heathen. By then I was mad.

  They asked me, "Doesn't it matter to you that you're going to Hell?"

  "I'm used to it by now."

  "Don't act like it's a joke! For all you know, maybe this is Hell. Maybe it's atheists like you that brought this down upon us."

  "I'm not an atheist, though."

  "Do you believe in God?"

  "I don't believe or disbelieve. I don't think it's possible to know, but I'm open-minded about it."

  "Jesus doesn't abide fence-sitters. The Lord spits them from His mouth like lukewarm water."

  "Spitting spreads disease."

  This pointless back-and-forth went on and on until I finally pretended to start crying and did my whole little waif act. Then they backed off and let me sleep.

  Late that night I awoke in the grip of death.

  "You unclean bitch. You little whore," rasped a hooded face inches from mine. "You act so fucking innocent, like you're some kind of Girl Scout, but you got it all figured out. Think you got all us guys twisted around your little pinkie. Well, I ain't fooled. You're here to tempt us." Spittle flecked my cheek. "Well, you know what? You succeeded."

  It was the stringy-haired man who'd wanted more cocoa. He was straddling my chest, pinning my arms under the tarpaulin with his knees. His hands were clamped over my mouth and nose, suffocating me. Someone else was on my legs. It was all very silent and methodical-the rest of the deck beyond my low curtain was fast asleep. Almost as soon as I knew what was happening I began to fade, losing myself in a throbbing red buzz.

  "Stop struggling or you die," he hissed in my ear. "You hear me? Hold still."

  "Bust that bitch, Adam" said the other from below, stripping off my panties. It was Mitch. "She's playin' you."

  "Come on, you cunt. Give it up."

  I disappeared for a second, then came back, fighting the deep willingness to do just as he was saying. Some part of me was grateful for the chance to go away for good. My body was a nest of agonies, but its troubles already seemed like someone else's problem.

  All at once there was a commotion, and the weight was gone. I could taste blood-the inside of my lip was cut from being mashed into my teeth. Gulping air, I looked up to see the wizened black face of Mr. Banks leaning over me. "You okay, bebby?" he asked.

  "She okay, Pop?" asked Tyrell, kneeling close by. There were a lot of other alarmed, sleepy people clustered around, men and boys all talking at once and ogling me. Big Lemuel was in tears. It was like the scene of a fire.

  Afraid of them all, I nodded, eyes wide.

  "Psh, she's going to be fine," said the old man. "That's the first time I've had occasion to thank the Lord for giving me a weak bladder. Hallelujah!" He was holding one of the big hammers that had been standard equipment at the factory. There was a tuft of hair on it, beaded red.

  Getting my breath back, I noticed someone lying motionless beside me. It was the tattooed one named Adam. A second body, that of Mitch, was draped partly over my leg, and I could feel it moving. Trying to push it off, my hand encountered hot, slimy hair covered with nylon netting. Blood. I cried out, squirming away.

  "Tch-tch-tch! You're safe. Hey." Hands gently pressed my shoulders, trying to be reassuring. Mr. Banks said soothingly, "It's all over now-you're okay."

  "Are they dead?" I choked.

  "Might be. Don't you worry none about them. They were bad."

  Wired, Tyrell said, "You clocked 'em good, Pop. Sorry-ass mothafuckas. We ain't playin', yo!"

  Breathless, I moaned, "No, you have to check! Check them fast, because-"

  With one swift motion Adam was on his feet in a feral crouch. His face was stained
dark as wine, darker than the sky overhead, and eyes still blacker-glass marbles with centers yawning wide as collapsed stars, sucking everything in. His tongue lolled out, a glistening blue-gray slug tasting the air. Rapture-there was nothing else to call it. It was an obscene resurrection; he was born again.

  I hardly saw what happened next as I quailed beneath the monstrous thing, trying to shrink into the deck. Boxed in on three sides by walls of recoiling onlookers, the Ex-Adam took a leisurely survey of the situation, then seized Hairnet Boy's living body by the collarbone as if it was a handle-Mitch awoke in agony-and lunged with him over the windscreen I had erected. It was just cardboard fastened to the safety cable. What appeared to be open space beyond was actually the port side of the boat. There was a skidding sound, then a splash as they both fell into the sea.

  We shined flashlights down after them, but there was no movement in the milky green water.

  "Boy had the devil in him," said Mr. Banks.

  When the day of departure finally came, and everyone had to break camp, I was deeply depressed. I didn't have the energy to deal with whatever plan they had for us or look ahead to the future, and I dreaded being cooped up with people who loathed me. On a purely aesthetic level, it was like moving from an airy patio to a windowless cellar. The lights and warmth would be nice, but if it weren't for the weather turning bad, I could have stayed up there forever.

  In the aftermath of the incident, most people avoided my eyes as if I were Medusa. Even the ones who took an interest in my welfare wouldn't look at me, but were suddenly fanatical about guarding me at night. There were a lot of fake-earnest expressions of sympathy, a stream of invitations to "just talk." All this got on my nerves because I didn't want them putting my trauma in a special category above their own-we were in this together. Others pretended nothing had happened, and I actually preferred this… except in the case of Cowper. It would have helped to talk to him.