But there were other Archies out there, and some of these gingers took great license with the brand. Archie is a bumbler, yes, so at first their accidental catastrophes were taken lightly—it was accepted that no vase, sculpture, or windowpane was safe with an Archie nearby, and ladders were acknowledged instruments of havoc. But the harmless blunders soon escalated to unnecessary heights of mayhem: The school science lab exploded, destroying Dr. Langhorne’s research, along with a wing of the building; then a fireworks display went haywire, causing a wildfire that burned down half the village. Both times it was an Archie that caused it.
That was just the beginning: Soon neighboring towns burned, bridges sagged, dams broke, and power lines went down—all in the wake of well-meaning involvement by Archies.
The Weatherbees, Flutesnoots, Grundys, and various other authority figures attempted to rein in these extreme manifestations of “character,” to channel them in more positive directions, but this only led to more opportunities for destruction. By the same token, increasing restrictions and curfews on one Archie just made the others act up. There was talk of eliminating the role of Archie altogether, replacing him with a less-destructive persona. But it was too late; the play had developed its own momentum and could not be controlled. It was like a runaway train, careening faster and faster to some unknown end.
The end came on a Monday night, right after the football game.
After a bad call, the game degenerated into a brawl, with players fighting and hooligans running onto the field with weapons. A tanker truck was driven onto the field, scattering the combatants and smashing through the goalposts before ramming the stands and exploding.
Flaming spectators swarmed down and made it a riot, then the whole population joined in and made it a war. The battle migrated from the stadium to the center of town, everyone savaging everyone else and being savaged in turn. All traces of Archie and the gang were erased. All the nice outfits were ripped to shreds (if not burned away entirely), all the neat houses were trashed, and all the tidy townsfolk were reduced to antic horrors, frenzied skeletons jigging to the music of The Monkees.
Perhaps because of the jukebox, they left the malt shop for last … but finally its time came. As if by some prearranged signal, the mob poured in, breaking down the door and crashing through the windows. The cash register became a weapon; plates and silverware became missiles. The level of crazed destruction was far beyond that of ordinary Xombies—this was violence for the sake of violence, mansized ants attacking each other and spiraling into even more extreme havoc, so that to a human witness, the scene would have been a blur, a chaos-making whirlwind.
“Stop,” I said.
The mob came at me, rearing up with everything it had to slice, dice, and make julienne fries.
“I SAID STOP.” My voice had a power over them; they bumped into it like hitting an invisible wall.
Then the power went out.
Just like that, the lights winked off, the music died. Anything running on electricity clunked to a halt. All at once, Loveville was silent but for the crackling of flames. Somewhere in that silence, a telephone rang—it was the malt shop’s pay phone.
Grumbling, Emilio Monte answered it, saying, “Hello? Yeah. Uh-huh. Uh-huh … uh-huh … uh-huh—no shit. Okay … I’ll tell ’em.”
He hung up and just stood there, ruminating over whatever he had just heard, while everyone else in the room waited expectantly in the dark, frozen in midfight. It was the first time the phone had ever rung. At last, Emilio picked his way through the wreckage of his shop, footsteps clinking on dishes and broken glass.
“Attention,” he said. “I got an announcement to make. That was Arlo Fisk on the phone, calling from the nuclear plant. He says he’s under attack.”
“Under attack! By who?” I asked.
“Another boomer. It’s a French boat—Triomphante-class. Arlo says they entered the reactor facility and routed his team. Says they stole the fuel rods, cleaned the place out.”
“Were they Xombies?” asked the charred corpse of Harvey Coombs.
“No. Just ordinary humans.”
This caused a stir.
Coombs said, “We should go after them!”
Alice Langhorne scoffed, “How? Swim?”
“No! Return to our boat! Get her reasonably shipshape, and start a search pattern.”
“That other sub will be halfway to Africa by the time we do all that.”
“Well, we have to do something. Look at us!”
“Coombs is right,” said Phil Tran. “If we ever want to catch them, we need to act like we give a damn.”
Dan Robles said, “Isn’t acting what we’ve just been doing? And look where it got us.”
I said, “That’s because we’ve been ignoring the elephant in the room. It’s not about us. Our story ended with our human lives. We no longer require care and feeding, and pretending otherwise is frustrating us to madness. Stop acting. Stop trying so hard. We are already free. Let’s focus on freeing them.”
Heads nodded, a change swept the room. Yes, free them, free them.
The tension ebbed like pressure dropping in an airplane, giving way to intense relief. Ravaged ghouls smiled. In letting go our humanity, we briefly felt the joy of being alive.
In minutes, a caravan of vehicles was pulling out of Loveville. For the first time, the town looked truly post-apocalyptic, streets littered with debris, buildings and cars engulfed in flames, fire hydrants spewing. By morning, there would be nothing left.
PART II
Divine Providence
CHAPTER SEVEN
PROPHETS
Ditching Uri Miska and not daring to look back, Todd Holmes and Ray Despineau bolted for the train station as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them.
“Wait, man, wait—look!” Ray was pointing at two of the bicycles recently abandoned by their friends.
“Yes! Grab ’em!”
It was somewhat disturbing to be riding bikes again; the boys were still traumatized, waiting to be jumped any second by Xombies. Riding up the hill was a nerve-wracking slog, but on the downside, they flew.
Spread out before them was the center of Providence: on the left, the clustered towers of downtown; on the right, the marble-domed State House; between them the canal leading to Waterplace Park and the Providence Place Mall—and the train station.
Blazing down Waterman Street, the two boys hurtled between abandoned cars and shot across the junction of two creeks, cutting through empty parking lots up to the train station’s main entrance. The train itself was in the tunnel underneath the building, but they could hear the rumble of its engine and smell its diesel exhaust. It was for real.
Dumping their bikes at the taxi stand, the boys barged into the dim terminal and tripped over a bunch of people kneeling on the floor, rudely interrupting the murmur of prayers.
Ray went sprawling over a bearded old man. “Whoa, shit, sorry!”
Out of nowhere, a snarling, monstrous creature with yellow eyes and huge fangs appeared, driving the boys into a corner. It was a large mandrill baboon.
One of the worshippers called, “Don! Down, down!”
The baboon reluctantly backed off, and an old man came forward—the man Ray had tripped over. He was wearing a robe and sandals, and had a long gray beard, like some biblical patriarch. Eyes adjusting, the boys could see other old men in robes as well.
Moguls, Ray thought, remembering what Miska had said. Resurrected Moguls.
There were maybe a hundred people in the room, and hundreds more in a long line leading to the mall.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
The boys were speechless, spellbound by the sight of so many human beings out in the open. What’s more, they appeared totally defenseless—no face protection, no body armor, no weapons of any kind. And there were women among them. The women all wore similar winged bonnets, and were corralled in a small group separate from the men.
Finding his bearings, Todd s
aid, “I’m Todd Holmes, and this is Ray Despineau. We want to join you.”
“Are you … anointed?”
“Anointed?”
“Sealed with the Blessed Sacrament.”
“The Sacrament, right! No, um, I don’t think so. We just got stranded here because our ship was attacked while we were foraging for supplies. It left without us.”
“The Lord Adam gathers the Righteous, Praise Be Upon Him.”
“Awesome,” Ray said gloomily.
The man asked, “Have you come seeking Miska?”
“Not really,” Todd said. “Actually, we’re more like running away from him.”
“You’ve seen Miska!”
“Yeah, he was right over in Fox Point. Very weird dude.”
“Todd, shut up,” Ray said, sotto voce.
“Well, hallelujah! This is surely a sign.” The old man called to everyone in earshot, “Brothers, the Lord Adam has sent us two guides in our search for the Evil One. They are the seal on our Covenant! The Oracle has spoken true!”
Amid the hallelujahs and amens, Ray asked, “Sorry, what’s this Covenant?”
“It is Man’s truce with Eve. After the Blue Apocalypse, Man had no Covenant, and in his zeal to avenge Adam, he offended the Goddess Eve. She summoned Her Blue Furies to visit the Sons of Adam with plagues wherever they took refuge, driving them first out of Providence, then out of Valhalla. For thirty days and thirty nights, the Apostle Chace led the Adamites through the wilderness, praying for a sign, their numbers dwindling as the imps of Miska stole their souls. Until finally their sufferings were rewarded: They witnessed the Resurrection of the Prophet—the Prophet Jim! The first Resurrection of many, including my own!”
“Jim?”
“Jim saved us! Jim anointed us against the Hellions, that now we may walk freely upon the land!”
“Wow—how do we get in on that?”
“You must submit to be Sanctified.”
“Definitely. We submit.”
“Kneel down.”
The boys knelt.
“Now close your eyes and open your mouths.”
Trading a wary glance with Ray, Todd asked, “Why?”
“Just do it!”
Taking a deep breath, the boys closed their eyes and opened wide. They flinched as something cold was sprayed in their throats, a bitter-tasting mist. Gagging, they tried to talk and found that they couldn’t—their mouths wouldn’t work. The deadness rushed through their bloodstreams and instantly soaked their brains, killing all their senses, stopping their hearts, but before they could panic, they passed out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TODD HOLMES
Perhaps it was the sight of those women that caused Todd Holmes to dream of his own mother. Awake, he blocked her completely out of his mind. He knew the term for it: “post-traumatic stress syndrome,” but he always thought that was just something that happened to soldiers in wartime. Now, in his sleep, he remembered all.
“You must really think I’m dumb. Boy oh boy, you must really take me for a dummy.”
“Huh?”
“Listen, if you hate me so much, why don’t you just go live with him? I’ll tell you why: because he wouldn’t put up with you. You think he wants that responsibility? Don’t bet on it.”
“What are you talking about, Mom?”
“What am I talking about? That’s a good one. Oh, that’s funny. Fun-ee.” Her voice warped like a pane of glass just before it broke. “Don’t play dumb with me. You’ve been seeing him behind my back. Oh my God, how could you, how could you?”
“Seeing who?”
“Your father!”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Why?” She laughed. “You of all people ask why. Oh, that is funny, after all we’ve been through together because of that man. Who do you think keeps a roof over our heads? Who do you think has worked and slaved away to keep us out of the gutter? Not him! He couldn’t care less! And now you stab me in the back! My own son! I can’t believe it, I can not believe it. Oh my God!” At once she seemed far away, lost and weeping in hurt reverie. “What did I ever do to deserve this?” she sniffled. “What did I ever do?”
“Nothing,” Todd said. “It’s not always about you.”
She returned to him, resentful eyes brimming, “You want to know how I found out? Oh, you’ll love this one. He came by yesterday, the bum, looking for forgiveness. He actually had the nerve to ask if he could take you to the plant with him! I couldn’t believe it!”
Unable to listen to any more, Todd made for the door, but his mother jerked him back by his dreadlocks. That wasn’t the worst; when she was really mad, she twisted his piercings.
“Ow! Mom!”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Out!”
“Oh no, you don’t. I know what you’re up to: You think you can just go cry to him, and the two of you can commiserate about what a horrible bitch I am, what a miserable, controlling harpy. Well, I’m through playing bad cop. Go ahead.” She released Todd, giving his head a shove. “You go! Go right ahead, buddy-boy. But don’t think you’re coming back here, uh-uh. If you leave now, you better plan on staying with him for good. It’s about time he got a turn being the parent. Go ahead. See how fast he takes you in. Go right ahead, fine by me.”
Todd hesitated, took a few steps toward the door, and wavered. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Mom.”
“Join the club.”
Looking at his mother, so resolute and red-faced, Todd was unexpectedly alarmed. This was no bluff—she meant it. She was prepared to let him go and perhaps never return.
All at once, he knew he couldn’t take another step; things had gone too far already. Though he hated his mother for the ultimatum, the humiliation, he understood in his heart that the blame was not really hers but his father’s, for all the lies and empty promises. If Todd truly trusted his dad, he’d have been out that door without a backward glance. He’d be gone so fast, your head would spin. Much as he wished that could be so, the truth was that his old man remained an unknown quantity. And not really so unknown—the man was simply not trustworthy.
Todd shut himself in his room and threw himself facedown on the bed, sobbing curses and slamming his fists into the pillows.
Shaking her head, his mother finished dressing and went out.
All afternoon Todd stayed in bed, curled against the onslaught of grief like a rolled-up pangolin, his fevered stillness punctuated by fits of hysterical rage. He fantasized at great length about suicide, making specific, elaborate plans and composing various versions of his suicide note. It was hard to strike the right tone. Apologetic? Accusatory? Sad and profound? Snide and angry? Brief and pithy, or a detailed manifesto? He couldn’t decide. Eventually, with evening coming on and the apartment submerged in gloom, Todd fell asleep.
At midnight, he was awakened from a deep slumber by people running up and down the halls, yelling incoherently and slamming doors. A lot of stupid screaming and shouting. Down in the streets there was the crackle of fireworks and a crazy profusion of car horns and sirens. It sounded like the whole city was in an uproar.
It took him a second to gather his wits, then he realized, Oh yeah: New Year’s Eve. The thought that he was missing all the fun made him even more depressed, and Todd disgustedly covered his head with a couch cushion and fell instantly back asleep.
A few hours later, just after 4:00 A.M., he was awakened again.
At first he wasn’t sure what it was that had disturbed him. He was fully awake and clearheaded, staring up at patterns of light reflected on the ceiling. It was quiet now, the urgent sounds of the city muted to a faraway din.
Then he heard it again: a metallic rattling from the front door. It was the doorknob—someone out in the hallway was twisting it, trying to get in. Not just turning the knob, but jerking and yanking at it, as if stubbornly refusing to accept that the door was locked. Todd could see the shadow of the person’s feet through the crack und
erneath.
He sat up in alarm. Was someone trying to break in? His father maybe, come to sneak him out? He glanced across the room to his mom’s bed, intending to wake her, but the bed was still made up—she hadn’t even been home. This was perplexing, so unlike her, but Todd reminded himself it was New Year’s—perhaps she had been invited to a party after work. Again, very unlikely, but it gave him the fleeting hope that it must be her at the door, tired—surely not drunk—and fumbling for her keys.
Hesitantly, he called out, “Mom?”
In reply to his voice, something like a load of bricks slammed into the door, crunching the frame and shaking the whole apartment. Then came a frenzied, whinnying scream, a shrill eruption of nonsense syllables that made Todd shrivel inside his skin. Far worse than nails on a chalkboard, the weird voice made an arcing live wire out of Todd’s every hair follicle and nerve ending. He almost pissed his pants.
A pause.
Todd slowly got up, trembling hard. Listening. He could no longer see the foot-shadows under the door.
What was THAT?
He had never heard such a voice in his life; nor could he imagine what would cause a person to sound like that. He couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. It terrified him to think it was someone who needed help, who was grievously injured, dying or bleeding to death on his doorstep. That’s what the voice evoked: catastrophic pain … or was it laughter? No, it was something more savage—demanding, not pleading—an animalistic keen that resonated in the most primitive part of Todd’s being and triggered a similarly primal response: to flee.
But he had nowhere to go. As the thing outside started jiggling and wrenching at the doorknob again, the confines of the tiny apartment took on the dimensions of a cage, a death trap. Todd picked up the phone and tapped 911. The line was busy—could they do that? He delicately hung up, trying not to clatter the phone with his shaking hand.
Okay … I’ll just wait for it to go away. Someone else in the building must have heard that jibbering outburst—any such disturbance usually caused their Filipino landlady to go ballistic. Never before had Todd so eagerly awaited one of Mrs. Mazola’s tirades. But she didn’t come. No one came. The building was dead silent.
Xombies: Apocalypso Page 7