“Join the club,” she said. “Listen, I’m going to get us some food. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Funny. You’re very humorous.”
Deena was gone a long time. Ray wondered if the girl had blown him off, when she finally appeared with mugs of tea and hot soup, crackers spread with cheese and apple butter, sliced salami, and a selection of cookies and dried fruit.
“Wow, that’s what I call service,” Ray said. “Did you have any trouble doing all this with the boat rocking?”
“Not really.”
As they ate, Chandra and Fran appeared, drawn from their bunks by the smell of soup.
“Nice!” said Chandra, squinting in the sun. “Lemme go make some sandwiches.”
It became a picnic. Even Todd was able to take a bit of nourishment between bouts of vomiting. Sandoval remained dead asleep.
As noon rolled around, Ray went below to wake Sandoval. He was annoyed to see that a lot of the yacht’s carefully stowed food supplies had been haphazardly unpacked and were now rolling around the cabin. Cans and bottles zigzagged underfoot like small loose cannons. Worst of all, there was a powerful stench of airplane glue-a can of waterproofing sealant had spilled all over the plywood deck.
Cursing, he cleaned up the mess as best he could. As he worked, he began to feel dizzy from the fumes but was determined to muddle through. The swaying of the boat didn’t help. Having struggled as long as possible to ignore his rising nausea, he abruptly dropped everything and bolted for the fantail, puking his guts out. When he turned around, Sandoval was standing in the doorway, grinning like blue death.
“Rayyyy,” he breathed.
Trying to leap away, Ray was jerked back like a rag doll, pinned face-to-face with the black-eyed horror that had been James Sandoval.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
Crushing Ray against the deck, the Xombie pried his resisting jaws apart, stretching its own mouth wide and clamping onto Ray’s in a hellish antithesis of CPR-a kiss of death. With one suck, he collapsed Ray’s lungs. The boy heaved, convulsing as his rib cage crumpled, then went limp. Now the creature reversed the action, exhaling with all its might, inverting its own bronchial tissue into Ray’s airway to flood the dead boy’s chest with X-infected blood cells.
Ray died and was born again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
STORM
Sprawled on the aft deck like a corpse, Ray woke up with a bang. His consciousness exploded as his dying brain cells were resurrected by the invading Maenad morphocyte. He was dazzled by the strangeness and beauty of his new world: the plywood cabin transformed into a fairy cave, the sea diamond-bright and seething with energy, the sky awash with ripples of cosmic light, the clouds glowing with ethereal colors. Even by daylight, he could see the invisible tracks of time and space, the ghostly orbits of particles and planets, the rings around the Sun. And amid all these long transits of inanimate matter, the futile blip of human consciousness.
He sprang to his feet.
Todd. Poor doomed Todd. Having just been there, Ray was overwhelmed with pity… and dawning comprehension. Look at this, he thought, feeling his broken body renew itself. It was nothing. Death was nothing, not anymore. Neither was pain, nor hunger, nor any other yearning of the flesh. He no longer had to tolerate the hopelessness of human existence; he had a choice, he could do something about it. Not just for Todd, but for all the miserable human beings still teetering on the brink of death. They didn’t have to die! The dread that hung over every living creature could be vanquished. And with that realization came an electric rush of joy, an exultation born of equal parts love, lust, and evangelical ecstasy. He dove back inside to save his friend.
As if having read Ray’s mind, the woman named Chandra Stevens was waiting, staring down at him in brazen invitation, her bright inner flame making her clothes a paper lantern. Unable to resist that warmth, Ray tried to speak, to make her understand, but his words came out garbled, a drunken slur. A noise an idiot might make… or an animal.
Disdaining the faulty instrument of speech, he leaped like a wild animal, embracing Chandra in a grip of steel and pressing her body against the forward bulkhead, bending her neck back nearly to breaking. She didn’t resist, surrendering completely to the kiss, and it was only as Ray sucked the air from her lungs that he realized she had tricked him.
No!
The woman was full of pure oxygen, her blood and tissues saturated with it. She had breathed deep from an oxygen tank, hyperventilating like a free diver before descent, then took one last hit and held it. It was no experiment; she knew exactly what she was doing. Behind her, Sandoval’s body lay splayed out in the forward compartment, another casualty of her medical expertise.
Ray tried to pull away, but the gas worked too fast, wilting his undead flesh from the inside out, turning his sentient blue-black blood instantly red. That red blood jump-started his heart and hit his brain like a runaway locomotive, knocking him instantly unconscious.
As Ray came back to life, he could hear people talking about him.
“Is there going to be any permanent brain damage?”
“Shouldn’t be. We purged him before he was fully saturated. He was only dead a couple of minutes-that’s not enough time for oxygen starvation to kill many brain cells.”
“Oh my God. What’s it like, being a Xombie?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“But don’t you still-”
“Son, shut up! I’m already tense enough, all right? Whatever I am, I’m still me, no thanks to this dumb kid. If it weren’t for Chandra’s quick thinking, you’d all be screwed. Now, we don’t have time for this; we have to batten everything down for that front that’s coming.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And make sure you get your dosage. I don’t want any more accidents.”
“No, sir.”
As the others left, Ray heard one remain behind. A soft voice spoke in his ear, “Please get better, Ray. For me.” It was Deena.
The hurricane hit.
It was not a true hurricane, merely a minor gale, but none of them had ever been on a small ship in rough seas. Sandoval and Chandra Stevens were unflappable, pretending not to be alarmed by swells that suddenly rose higher than their heads, or by waves breaking over the entire boat, or by the deck heeling over so far it became a steep hill.
But Ray could tell that his elders weren’t as confident as they pretended to be: the rabbity look in the Chandra’s eyes when the yacht shuddered under tons of whitewater, or Sandoval’s anxious silence as the boat struggled to right itself. Jim’s green face scared Ray more than the storm itself.
It was impossible to venture above without admitting a deluge into the cabin. Everything belowdecks was awash, and the bilge pump barely kept up. All aboard were soaked to the skin, cold to the bone, dreaming about a hot drink or a hot meal. More than anything, Ray was desperate to go to the bathroom-number two-but the head was a plastic bucket that had to be dumped overboard-a difficult operation under the circumstances. There was no question of opening the dive well. He held it in as long as he could, sweating out the intestinal spasms as he tried to sleep, until finally it was time for his watch.
It was after midnight. The swells were so large that the boat swooped in and out of the canyonlike troughs without much pounding, but the rain and wind were still fierce. Before Sandoval had retired for the night, they had turned off the engine and deployed the sea anchor, so the yacht was dragging along like a small man leashed to a large, eager dog.
As stealthily as possible, Ray left the cockpit and climbed over the starboard rail. Crouching there, hanging on for dear life by one hand, he lowered his pants and jutted his rear end into space.
Before he could let fly, something broke the waves close behind him. Something huge-an enormous black monolith that parted the sea, jutting upward, spreading its wings and casting a blinding white eye upon his bare ass. It was a submarine.
Aw, shit, he
thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MR. DIXON GOES TO WASHINGTON
“This is it, sir! Welcome to Xanadu!”
Looking out the windows of the big helicopter, Air Force 2, James Sandoval could see thousands of people waiting to greet him. A giant banner read, WELCOME CHAIRMAN SANDOVAL! Flags were flying, bands were playing, children were waving, and hundreds of soldiers stood lined up at attention. Those troops were wearing flamboyant parade uniforms with tall hats, tasseled epaulets, and rows of gold buttons. Their rifles looked like toys.
“Where did all those people come from?” Sandoval asked.
“They’re mostly new converts,” said his pilot, a jolly Marine aviator named Hapgood Bragg.
“You mean converted Xombies?”
“That’s right.”
“But they look so… normal.”
“Of course! We’ve streamlined the conditioning process. Otherwise, there would be no point.”
The helicopter was set down gently, and men came running with a rolling stair platform. At the edge of the landing pad was a group of dignitaries covered with medals and other decorations, the tallest one holding a giant gold key, and a line of women in flowing pastel gowns holding necklaces of flowers. Everyone had formal gloves, cravats, canes, top hats, and other such anachronistic finery, all blowing violently in the helicopter’s downdraft. It was ridiculous.
“What is this, the inauguration of Grover Cleveland?”
Sandoval stepped from the chopper as if testing a hot bath, and was immediately swarmed with greeters. One of them was a man he had been told to expect: Kasim Bendis, the mercenary soldier known as Uncle Spam, who had advised the Reapers and was blown to smithereens while hunting Uri Miska. Sandoval had heard that Bendis arrived in Washington a shambling Xombie, little more than a blasted carcass, but clearly that report was old news. The man was completely intact again, a gentleman warrior in full command of his faculties as well as his brigade. He had also jumped several ranks, from major to major general.
“Welcome to Xanadu, Mr. Sandoval,” Bendis said.
“Thank you, Kasim. Congratulations on your promotion.”
“Yes, sir. Same to you.”
Sandoval and Bendis went way back. Long before Agent X, they and Chace Dixon had founded a private security firm that in the heat of 9/11 netted a billion-dollar contract to provide force protection for the U.S. military… among other things. Sandoval was the silent partner, supplying capital and global connections, Bendis brought the military expertise, and Chace Dixon handled PR. They called it the Charm School, and it included a Christian men’s retreat, a church, a survival-training camp, an airfield, and a weapons range frequented by individuals who did not like to be photographed. The Charm School worked closely with various intelligence agencies as an unofficial recruiting center, just as the seminary recruited from the ranks of ex-servicemen. It was a useful symbiosis, because the seminary was a place in which men were trained to submit their will to God, but it was hardly a place of passive worship. In Chace Dixon’s opinion, the assault on traditional values had begun long before Agent X, and men like these had been preparing all their lives to fight it. The Apocalypse came as no surprise to them. Accustomed to railing against government-funded birth control, legal abortion, illegal immigrants, and the election of a socialist, foreign-born Muslim for president, they were amazed it took so long. Yet even as Dixon’s wildest convictions were borne out, most of his men hadn’t known how to deal with it. With Xombies swarming the country, the Charm School fell into serious disarray, two thousand hard-ass holy warriors holed up like scared rabbits at their training camp. Believing the Second Coming was really upon them, they went to pieces, some disappearing into the chaos, others throwing their weapons down and devoting their final hours to prayer. They would have died that way, on their knees, if not for Kasim Bendis rallying them to action. It was Bendis who founded the Holy Avengers of Adam-the Adamites. He even came up with their slogan: “Give Me Back My Rib.” Then he was immediately dispatched south to mobilize an army of prison convicts-the Reapers.
Bendis presented Sandoval with the key to the city, a marching band struck up “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” and together they ventured outside to a tremendous ovation.
Emerging on the green of the Ellipse, near the Zero Milestone, Sandoval was spellbound. The city of Washington was apparently intact, and then some; in fact, it seemed to have reverted to an earlier, more genteel time. There was no automobile traffic, only the quaint sight of electric trolleys, horse-drawn carriages, and bicycle rickshaws ferrying loads of well-dressed burghers about the National Mall.
Strolling onto the grass with Bendis and an entourage of city officials, Sandoval was led to the base of the Washington Monument, which had been turned into an immense hood ornament, a winged colossus representing the First Man. The statue was a framework of iron bars with gas flames burning in its eyes. In its shadow was a tent big enough for a three-ring circus, full of lights, chairs, and buffet-laden tables, where Sandoval was subjected to dozens of toasts and many pious expressions of grace. He joined the toasts but didn’t touch the food or drink, blaming a bout of stomach flu. Afterward, he was taken on an all-day tour of the city, culminating in a parade in his honor.
The parade floats were unusual, with sponsors like EX-IT and RED-IT, both appearing to be aerosol deodorants, and there were dancers, jugglers, acrobats, soldiers, and more marching bands, each group flying the flag of Xanadu: a big blue X on a red background with white stars in the blue.
Sandoval asked, “What’s Red-It? Looks like some kind of energy drink.”
“You might say that. It’s what makes all this possible. It’s what our whole economy is based on. I believe you in Providence call it the Sacrament. It’s simply immune serum in a convenient aerosol form. We have commercialized it a bit more, but it’s still the same basic thing. Soon we will begin large-scale exports, and the Xombie problem will be eliminated worldwide.”
“Do you plan to give it away free?”
This caused a great eruption of hilarity from all in earshot. People crying with laughter.
Annoyed, Sandoval asked, “Then what’s Ex-It?”
“Ah. Now, Ex-It is something we’re all very excited about, a time-release cocktail combining the immune factor with an oxygen inhibitor and a specialized strain of the Maenad agent. With that one treatment, we can essentially reboot your body’s entire DNA structure in minutes, wiping out a lifetime of accreted cell damage, as well as any disease or injury. Everything is restored to mint condition, meaning that whatever age you are, you are now functionally back to zero, so you get a whole new lifetime. And you can use it again and again! But you already know all this, don’t you, Jim? I happen to know you’re a major investor in our wonderful products, as well as a customer.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Just making sure you all love the product as much as I do.”
“Oh, we do, believe me! Disease and death are things of the past in Xanadu, as are the personality clashes that have led to strife in all other human societies. Ex-It screens out more than ninety percent of subconscious stress factors, all that personal baggage we carry around from childhood, leading to a more homogeneous, receptive personality type. Man will finally be able to rise to his full potential.”
“And woman,” said Sandoval.
“And woman, of course.”
Last stop was the White House.
The White House glowed like a lamp in the settling dark, a civilized beacon of chilled air and electric light. Sandoval’s party was led inside and down a carpeted hallway, past elegant sitting rooms full of busts and portraits of former presidents, then through suites of offices. At last they were shown into a room filled with TV cameras and lights, where a man in a suit and tie sat at a table signing papers. No one failed to recognized both the man and the room in which he sat. It was the Oval Office.
“Oh my God,” Sandoval muttered.
Alarmed, Bendis said, “What?”<
br />
“It’s the president!”
“Oh, yes. Quite dignified, isn’t he?”
“I saw him shoot himself in the head. During an emergency bulletin.”
“Now, Mr. Sandoval. None of the best presidents ever needed a brain, just a signing pen.”
Jim Sandoval approached the president’s desk. There were several imposing-looking Secret Service agents standing by, but none attempted to stop him or indeed took any notice at all. A bucket brigade of elderly men was busily grabbing papers from an enormous stack, stamping them with the date, passing them to the president to sign, then crimping them with an official seal before piling them onto an even more enormous stack. Carts full of such documents rolled in and out. TV cameras monitored the proceedings.
Sandoval walked behind the president’s desk and peered over the man’s shoulder as he was handed a document. It was titled, Amendment to Federal Antitrust Act-Mogul Clause 3381C. Without reading it, the president automatically scrawled a large X and handed it off. Immediately, another document hit the desk, something about a Mogul bill to reinstate the Articles of Confederation, essentially abolishing all taxes. The president mimed signing those, too, then the next and the next and the next, just like an assembly line.
So this was it, Sandoval realized. All these resurrected Moguls were rewriting bills for the president to sign. The man was a drone-like all the other drones here. They were converted Xombies, brainless ghouls resurrected and trained like monkeys to sign MoCo’s wish list into law. The White House had become a factory for rewriting history, manipulating the future by deleting the past. A giant propaganda organ. The dead president was just a puppet, making America safe for permanent Mogul domination.
As they left, Sandoval asked, “Mr. Bendis, who’s in charge of all this? You?”
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