The city was quiet at night-quiet and dark and bitter cold. In that deep silence, any noise would have been loud, and this was a loud noise to begin with: the rumble of an electronic garage door. Pulled by a chain drive, heavy steel slats were raised and wrapped around a rotating drum, making an almighty racket. Even before the door was all the way up, a huge black SUV blazed through and up the exit ramp.
Barreling in zigzags down the empty streets, the car met no obstacles, no opposition from living or dead. It was just too cold. Hurtling down an alley, the vehicle slowed as it approached a glowing tarpaulin at the end-a big tent blocking the way. Shadows could be seen moving inside, sentries roused by the sound of approaching vehicles.
“Guards!” Brenda yelled. “Go back, go back!”
“I’m trying!” Apollo said. “We’re blocked from behind.”
Ray and Brenda craned their necks, horrified to see a large vehicle coming up fast. It was not an ordinary truck but an armored riot vehicle stenciled with daggerlike crucifixes dripping blood. A six-wheeled Deathmobile.
“Then go forward!” Brenda cried.
“You got it.” Apollo hit the gas and plowed through the canvas wall. There was a burst of orange embers as the Escalade struck a flaming trash barrel, then a violent crash that caused the air bags to deploy. A loud alarm started going off.
“Shi-i-it,” Ray said, pushing away the air bag and feeling his nose for blood.
They had struck a concrete barricade. The force of the crash had knocked one of the blocks over and dragged it under the car for a good ten feet.
Apollo shouted, “Get out! Get out now!”
As they abandoned the car, a blaze of tracer fire erupted from the approaching vehicle, cutting through the Escalade’s armor plating as if it were sliced provolone. Windows blew out, tires exploded, and Apollo grunted as he was shot to pieces. Ray braced himself to die, but miraculously no bullet struck him. His sister, however, was hit.
“Brenda! Oh shit!” He dove to help her, propping her upright against the concrete slab as though it were a chaise. Her face was pale and her eyes very bright, but she didn’t seem to be in pain. Her injury was hidden somewhere under her clothes, just a spreading dark stain running down her side. “Can you walk? We gotta go!”
Apologetically, she said, “I don’t think I can, Ray. You have to go without me.”
“No way! You’re coming, if I have to carry you!” He tried to pick her up, but she cried out in sudden agony, shaking her head no. He hurriedly let her down, his sleeves soaked with her steaming-hot blood. He didn’t know what to do. His bare hands had touched the enormous rip in her flesh, feeling the slimy tissue hanging out, and he shuddered in terror and grief. Brenda was dying. His big sister was dying. The sister who was his only relative in the world, who had been as much a mother as a sister to him, and whom he had never imagined living without… because without her, he was totally and utterly alone.
The Deathmobile pulled up to the barricade, and several men got out. They were matter-of-fact about the destruction they had wrought, no strangers to killing. One of them had a flamethrower. “All right, kid,” he said. “Step away from the body so we can purify the area.”
“Fuck off,” Ray said.
“Yeah, yeah. Brother Matt, come get this kid, will you?”
“You got it, chief.” Brother Matt stepped over the barricade and raised his boot to kick Ray off Brenda, but before he could deliver the blow, his body jerked rigid and he made a strangled noise from the back of his throat. His eyes bulged and his tongue popped out, and all of a sudden his torso twisted apart at the waist.
Apollo rose into the light. He was a shot-up wreck, an animated blue monstrosity, but a Xombie was still a Xombie, and his big hands gleamed red, clutching pieces of Brother Matt’s severed spine.
The other men opened fire, but even before they pulled the triggers, more Xombies materialized out of thin air, literally falling upon them from windows overlooking the street. In an instant, every man was down. Their radios crackled with anxious queries.
Brenda touched Ray’s hand. Her fingers were ice-cold. “Go, honey,” she said. It took her great effort to say it, and she didn’t have much left. “Please.”
Not knowing what he was doing, Ray crawled away from her. He would later realize he never kissed her good-bye, never told her he loved her, and this would torment him during the long voyage on the submarine. There was a wine store a few feet away, and he went inside. The Xombies didn’t seem to notice. Ray walked through the store and out the back door into an alley. No one saw him; no one followed. A few blocks away, he found a motor scooter lying on its side. It was a nice Vespa, just abandoned, with the keys still in it.
It started right up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GULAG
Todd pushed the hooded prisoner in front of him, trying to look brusque as he approached the sentries. The two Brethren sat in a huge riot vehicle, the Deathmobile, one at the wheel and the other manning a rooftop machine gun. The gunner trained his weapon on the approaching pair.
“State your business,” he called.
“This woman just surrendered to me outside. She says the Hellions won’t touch her.”
The driver sat up. “No shit? You know, there’s a bounty on Munies. If she’s for real, you get a promotion. Where’s your incident report?”
“Right here.”
The man barely glanced at the paper. “Why haven’t I seen you before?”
“I’m new. I’ve been assigned to the hotel.”
“You’re not one of those guys who rode in on bikes?”
“That’s right.”
“Cool. And you weren’t even anointed? No protection at all?”
“No. Can we get through this?”
“Be done in a sec. Whose side are you on, the Prophet or the Apostle?”
“The Prophet.”
“Bad idea, if you ask me. Odds are with the Living Saint, two to one. This is one horse race you want to be sure to bet on the favorite.”
“Amen to that, brother.”
The man at the gun seemed to be studying the prisoner closely.
Todd suddenly felt very stupid to think this plan could work. Sneaking a dress, a wig, and some cosmetics from the mall stores, Todd had watched as Ray tried to create a look that was feminine without being overly fussy-apocalypse chic. “That’ll work, that’ll work,” Todd kept muttering doubtfully. It was all a bad joke. At best, Ray looked like a soot-smudged female impersonator.
But it seemed to be good enough. The guard gave the okay, and Ray was allowed through the gate of the compound and released from his bonds. Todd was dismissed.
Peace, bro, he thought.
Unhooded, Ray found himself standing alongside a row of portable toilets. Straight ahead were ranks of brand-new recreational vehicles, dozens of them, with an open space in the center. In that clearing, he could see a group of women sitting at several picnic tables, playing cards.
Before Agent X, Ray had come here every Fourth of July. It was nice: Bands played and people brought beach chairs to watch fireworks over the State House. With the trailers and fences and huddled figures, it now looked more like a gulag.
The group at the table waved him over. There were about ten of them, anonymous figures with scarves wrapped around their heads. They looked like old homeless ladies, bundled in whatever the men supplied them with from Nordstrom’s, Macy’s, or Bed, Bath amp; Beyond. Heart hammering, Ray started over to them, wondering how he was going to pull this off.
From off to the side, a man’s voice called, “Ray…? Oh my God, is that you?”
“Uncle Jim!” Ray said.
He rushed to embrace the man and was held off by a warning look. In a low voice, Sandoval said, “No touchee. It’s the rules.” Looking askance at Ray, he asked, “What the hell are you wearing?”