Apocalypso

CHAPTER FIVE
LOVEVILLE

Half the tires were flat, but we kept driving on them until the dragging treads started to catch fire. Then we had to get off and stand around while the buses burned. Looking at the map, I noticed there was a place called Hollywood not too far away-Hollywood, Maryland. My mother used to take me to Hollywood. The real one. The memory was enough to start me moving again, and my evident purpose compelled the others to follow.

Hiking cross-country, we found a gasoline terminal and commandeered a fuel barge. Maneuvering the barge was tricky in places; the river was full of carbonized ruin that had washed down from Baltimore, its banks and shoals festooned with trash. But as we navigated downstream, the river widened, and the junk dispersed.

After a few miles, we put ashore in a cove and started walking toward Hollywood. It was a semirural area, checkered with farms that were now meadows, encroached upon by suburban developments that would croach no more.

Breasting the tall grass, surrounded by the hiss of locusts, we came to a town called Loveville, and that was it. We had all had enough. It wasn’t that we were tired-just tired of seeking something we knew didn’t exist. Tired of being disappointed. Screw Hollywood. This was a pleasant little town, with schools and churches and grocery stores. The sign said, WELCOME TO LOVEVILLE-what more could one want?

“What are we doing, Lulu?” asked Bobby. “What are we looking for?”

I had no good answer. Listening to the birds and the bees, I said, “I think this may be it.”

“What?”

“We’re home.”

For the first few weeks, very little happened. We existed in a dream state, some of us wandering around like sleepwalkers, others barely moving, all mesmerized by patterns of energy underlying the material world. With a little concentration, it was possible to make out the quantum-mechanical webwork that connected everything to everything else-the literal fabric of time and space. Actually, it was more like a vast harp, warping and rippling and swirling as the planet moved, vibrating a deep B minor chord from the depths of the galaxy. It called to us, promising gorgeous oblivion, but most were not ready to go… yet. We were torn between two worlds, unwilling or unable to commit to either and thus trapped in between. In limbo.

But perhaps we were underestimating ourselves. What if we didn’t have to wait for the answers we craved but could invent whatever life we wanted and simply start living it? What if we could create the best of all possible worlds? Customize a reality that suited our peculiar needs?

Alice Langhorne called a meeting:

“Lulu has brought something to my attention,” she announced. “Something that must be addressed if we are to continue as a group. We believe the present situation is becoming untenable. It’s too difficult trying to graft our previous lives onto this new set of circumstances. We failed at it on the sub, we failed at it in Providence, and we’re failing at it here. We aren’t the people we used to be, and it’s no use pretending we are. The incongruities are too… awkward. We need a less-fraught model to follow; otherwise, we’ll all crack up.”

There was silence-the truth of it was plain to all.

Langhorne continued, “Obviously, this is uncharted territory. We’re not only reinventing ourselves, we’re inventing an entirely new mode of existence-one that goes far beyond anything our human psyches can comprehend. It’s not a damn makeover. The only frame of reference we have is mythical: zombies, vampires, angels-that kind of Hollywood baloney. We all know the reality is not quite so… glamorous. We think something profound is going to happen, some kind of Armageddon, and we were altered to survive it. So we’re just hanging around, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Cosmic loitering. And if we’re not careful, we’ll all disappear right up our own black holes.”

Julian Noteiro stepped forward. “So what did Lulu suggest?”

“That we need a new script to follow-something that touches upon all the basic aspects of human society without all the oppressive limitations of that society. A stylebook that we can live by, day to day, to keep our humanity intact. So we don’t lose it.”

“You mean like the Bible?”

“Not exactly.” Langhorne picked up a stack of magazines out of a carton and slapped them down on the table. They were old comic books with titles like LOVE and PEP and PALS ’N’ GALS. “Lulu was thinking of something a little easier-something more along these lines.”

The crowd came forward, inspecting the comics as though they were peculiar alien artifacts. Inside the box were many more comics, as well as vintage paperback books and DVDs of old television shows. On top were discs of The Andy Griffith Show and I Love Lucy.

Langhorne said, “Let’s get started, shall we?”

I sat alone in the dark, reminiscing as I watched dawn creep over the horizon.

Xombies didn’t sleep. Nor could it be said that we were ever truly awake-not in the human sense. Xombies did not live in the present. Our minds wandered freely in time and space; they drifted in and out. I knew the human conception of reality was a facade erected by mortal minds to block contact with the inconceivable vastness of genuine reality. Living creatures needed this mechanism in order to forget they were doomed. Xombies did not. So in that sense it could be said that Xombies were deeply awake and that human consciousness was a mode of dreaming. A delusion.

My mother came back to me again and again. This time we were driving to McDonald’s in a borrowed Cadillac. I remembered: My mother got a job working as a housekeeper for a family in Lake Tahoe. It was a large house on a remote mountain road, and I shared a cozy room over the garage with the children of the family who owned the place. The three girls welcomed me like a sister, and their unexpected generosity filled my parched heart. Even the local elementary school was incredible, a woodsy, progressive place where the kids were friendly and the teachers funny and sane. One day, while the family was away, I made the mistake of trying to climb a steep gravel bluff, lost my footing, and slid to the bottom, badly skinning both knees. My mother found me bleeding on the doorstep and rushed me to the bathtub, where she washed the wounds and dabbed them with Mercurochrome. Once I was patched up, stiff with pain, my mother said, You know what this means, don’t you?

What? I sniffled.

You get a wish. A freebie.

I was propped on the couch in front of the TV, watching pornographic close-ups of golden fries. I want a Filet-O-Fish, I said.

Honey, the nearest McDonald’s is fifty miles away.

What about the Caddy? I meant the family Cadillac, a pristine black limo that never left the garage except on the most special occasions-the Baxters used their two other cars for getting around. The Caddy was strictly for show.

Lulu, you know I’m not allowed to use that car. Mr. Baxter specifically said so.

My tone turned tragic; waifish tears welled up. Why not? It’s just a quick ride into town and back. They’ll never even know.

You must be kidding. You know what’ll happen if they find out?

How could they find out? They’re in Sacramento. Sensing my mother waver, I crooned, Mummy, you promised-pleeeeze?

It was a thrillingly short drive: Halfway down the mountain, the Caddy ran out of gas.

We were forced to abandon the car, flagging down a passing motorist for a ride to town and paying a service station to deliver fuel. By the time we got back to the car, it had been towed. The police thought it was a stolen vehicle because the Baxters had left word they would be out of town, and the car had been vandalized. Then there was the hefty impound fee. My mother tried first to charm, then to bluster her way out, and I cranked up the waterworks, but it was no use. We had no money; we were stuck. The only way to get the car back was to call the Baxters and explain the whole situation. It was not fun. The look on Mummy’s face as she hung up the phone made it utterly clear that our life in Lake Tahoe was soon to be over. So much for the joyride. But already I was adjusting to the new reality, walling off the humiliating dismissal-fuckit, I thought. My attention shifted to the golden arches across the street-Mummy still had a few bucks left.

My blue lips parted, mouthing the words of that long-ago child: Mummy? I’m still hungry.

I heard a noise. Somewhere down the block, an unmuffled two-stroke engine sputtered to life. Then another, and another, all working their way up the street. It was an unpleasant and deeply familiar sound-one I had not heard since I was alive.

Lawn mowers.

Opening the kitchen window, I leaned out to see all the crew from the boat pushing lawn mowers across their new lawns. It was still quite dark out, and the landscape was shaded deep blue under a paler sky pricked with stars. I could smell exhaust and cut grass. The stars were the only lights-there was no electricity yet.

As the mowers completed their work, and the sun cleared the rooftops, I heard a different sound, like gunshots in the distance-it was the backfiring of an old car. A moment later, the vehicle chugged into view, turning up my street.

It was an antique car, a red jalopy with the top down, squeaking and rattling as if its engine were shaking it to pieces. The spoked wheels were visibly out of alignment, and the exhaust pipe spewed a contrail of noxious fumes.

The car stopped in front of my house. I could see Jake Bartholomew in the driver’s seat; he set the brake and gave the horn a toot. Jake’s passengers jumped out and came up the walk-they were Sal DeLuca and Lemuel Sanchez.

Sal was wearing a peculiar hat, its felt brim turned up and cut to resemble a king’s crown, with colorful buttons pinned around it like jewels. Lemuel’s hair had been cropped short and bleached blond, and he was dressed in a football jersey that said QUARTERBACK. They knocked on the door.

This was unusual. The door was unlocked; nobody announced themselves anymore. Human courtesies such as respect for privacy were meaningless, especially after the forced intimacies of living together on the sub. I turned to see Alice Langhorne gliding down the stairs like a ghost. The usually austere woman was wearing a pleated pink dress and a frilly apron, but the most alarming change was her head of curlers.

“I’ll get it,” Langhorne said. Opening the front door, she said, “Good morning, boys.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Langhorne. Is Lulu around?”

“That’s Ms. Langhorne. And she certainly is. Lulu!”

“What?”

“Lemuel and Sal are here to pick you up.”

“Pick me up? For what?”

“Boys?”

As if reciting from a script, Sal said, “Miz Langhorne asked us to ask you if you would do us the honor of letting you drive us-I mean, letting us drive you, heh heh-to school.”

“School? Are you demented? What do you-” Langhorne jabbed me in the back. Hard. “Oh. Right. School, really?”

Alice Langhorne nodded grimly.

“All right,” I said. “Hang on.” I stepped into my shoes. “I’m ready; let’s go.”

“No you are not, young lady.”

“What now?”

“You can’t go to school like that. You march right upstairs and put on a clean dress and brush your hair. The boys will wait. Won’t you?”

“Yes, Miz Langhorne.”

Knowing it was pointless to argue, I climbed the stairs while Alice invited the boys in and offered them milk and cookies. Little Bobby Rubio was at the top of the stairs, staring down.

“Are you going to play school?” he asked me, as I brushed past.

“I guess so.”

“Can I play, too?”

“Go ask Alice.”

I went into my designated room and examined the clothes in the closet. They had belonged to a girl exactly my size though much younger. Taking off my filthy velvet dress, I put on a clean cotton one-a sunny yellow number with black polka dots. Then I brushed my hair into some semblance of order and tied it with a bow. Flying back downstairs, I was intercepted by Langhorne, who spit-shined my face and handed me a sack lunch before letting me out the door.

“Have a nice day at school!” she called after us.

Getting into the car, I was struck anew by the boys’ weirdly preppy appearance. Jake’s copper-colored hair was parted into two lobes in front and buzzed short at the sides, the stubble shaved in a peculiar grid pattern. He wore a V-neck sweater over a dress shirt, baggy golf pants, and brown-and-white gaiters.

“Hi, Jake,” I said.

“Hi, Lulu. What do you think of Bess?”

“Bess?” My first thought was Basic Enlisted Submarine School.

“Bessie, my new car-well, maybe not new… ”

“Oh. Nice.”

“Nice? You wouldn’t believe what we went through to find this thing and get it running. It’s a Model T Roadster-is that awesome or what? We looked up antique car dealers in three different counties before we found it.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why do you think?” He waved a comic book in my face. “Mood! Atmosphere! The power of suggestion! It’s an experiment in Xombie psychology, and we’re the subjects. Haven’t the officers drilled you about this?”

“No. Just Langhorne.”

“Oh.” Abashed, Jake said, “Well, we all got the full spiel during the night-you’re lucky you missed it.”

Lucky. Right. Well, I supposed I had no one but myself to blame. They drove me through deserted neighborhoods to the local high school. Arriving, I was surprised to see hundreds of students milling around the entrance. I was not used to seeing Xombies wearing clothes, much less carrying books and backpacks. From a distance, they did not resemble Xombies at all. Only about fifty of them were from the boat, the rest were freshly groomed strangers.

Crowd noise was muted; there was little talking and less laughter. Harvey Coombs, Dan Robles, Ed Albemarle, and several other officers from the boat were patrolling the crowd like ominous shepherds, preventing anyone from straying too far.

“Hi, Ed,” I said, as Albemarle passed me.

Lemuel hissed, “We’re supposed to call him Principal Albemarle.”

“Oh, really?” As Fred Cowper’s proxy on the sub, I was accustomed to giving the orders, not taking them. “What happens if I don’t?”

“Then you get sent to Detention.”

“Ah… ”

Clearly, most of these “students” were random Xombies rustled up during the night and given a crash course in campus life. With no humans around, they were quite docile-in fact, hard to distinguish from the treated Blues. It really brought home the fact that in a totally human-free world, my blood was no longer needed to keep the peace. I was obsolete. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that or what it would mean for me.

The bell rang, and everyone started filing inside. Waiting my turn at the back of the line, I noticed a car racing toward the school. It was a silver Jaguar with the top down. As it screeched into a handicapped parking slot, the driver vaulted out of his seat and landed lightly on the sidewalk. Despite his aviator sunglasses and disco outfit, I recognized Kyle Hancock.

Kyle strutted up the path like an urban cowboy, and when he reached me, he threw his arm around my shoulder, and said, “Hello, baaaaby. Can I have a burger with that shake?”

Shrugging his arm off, I said, “Smooth. Who are you supposed to be? Superfly?”

“I’m MC Ricky Ricardo, honey. The Afro-Cuban Revolution. Babaloooo! Question is, who are you supposed to be?”

“That’s actually a good question… ”

“Well, in that case, why don’t you and I blow this chicken shack and take a ride in my X-K-E?” He put his arm back around my shoulder and tried to steer me away.

I resisted slightly, but it was more trouble than it was worth. Actually, I was glad for the excuse to get out of school. Just then, a large hand settled on the back of Kyle’s neck. Before the boy could react, the hand squeezed tight and hoisted him off his feet.

It was Lemuel. Shaking Kyle like a rat, the larger boy said, “Nobody messes with my girl.” Then he punched Kyle square in the face. Kyle’s sunglasses fractured, mirrored shards embedding in flesh and bone as his nose squashed flat and his face actually inverted. He bounced off Lemuel’s fist and sailed backward across the grass. The crowd watched all this impassively, then turned away.

“Gee,” I said. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I kind of did,” said Lemuel sheepishly. “It’s in the book.”

Picking glass out of his face, Kyle yelled, “But you didn’t have to mean it!”

The first day of school was always a little strange. New classes, new faces, new locker combinations-it was a lot to learn. Unless you just didn’t care. That was the challenge of Xombie High: teaching those who had no reason to work. The time factor alone was nearly impossible since Maenad consciousness was not easily synched to a clock. Five minutes here, an hour there-it was like posting stop signs for the wind.

To a Xombie, the rate at which time passed was completely optional. We were not trapped in the here and now, chained to the present like students watching a clock. Exes were never bored or impatient because if we didn’t like what was going on, we simply skipped ahead in time, leaving our inert bodies for however long was necessary-hours, days, weeks… perhaps years or centuries-until body and mind could reunite under more pleasant circumstances. To us, this leap was instantaneous; there was no mental gap.

Therefore, in order for school to function, we had to deliberately imprison our minds in the present and obey a schedule, like circus lions jumping through hoops. For us creatures from the boat, this was not so difficult-we were accustomed to a degree of effort and self-control. The challenge was that we were expected to impart this work ethic to the wild-caught Exes, the free-range and the rogue, who had no such inhibitions.

Fortunately, the newbies learned fast. All of us did. At least at first, Langhorne’s experiment was far more successful than I ever imagined possible. With no actual humans around to distract us or remind us what monsters we were, we eagerly convinced ourselves we were people again. Nostalgia spread among us like a new disease, so that even the zombiest of Xombies was soon putting on hair gel and yammering “Gosh!” and “Gee whiz!”

Classes were fairly interesting, and there were only two subjects being taught: Xombiology 101 and Ex Ed. The first was a kind of Xombies for Dummies tutorial on everything that was known about the Maenad condition, given by the resident authority, Alice Langhorne, PhD. The second was a primer on how to create a utopian society by modeling idealized human behavior, such as that found in “wholesome” 1950s Americana. Not just comic books, but television shows, movies, and children’s literature. The idea was to use these materials as How-to-Be-Human handbooks-make it so simple even a Xombie could understand. It helped that wild Xombies had a moony fascination with Clears and were inclined to do what they said.

All day long, Langhorne addressed variations of the same question: What was the purpose of all this?

To which she would reply, “The purpose is to have a purpose.”

“That’s it?” Julian Noteiro asked on Day One. “So what we’re doing is just totally arbitrary?”

“Not at all, Julian. We are preserving certain familiar archetypes-just as our bodies are preserving human physical characteristics, which are equally obsolete. We are doing this because each of us is an archive of human traits-a walking, talking time capsule-and someday our survival as a species may depend on how much we remember of being human.”

“But what if we don’t want to be human?”

“Then we may forfeit that choice forever. That’s the challenge we must confront: whether to jettison the mortal definition of humanity-its ‘soul,’ if you will-or try to preserve it. Life as a Xombie is very inviting-we all feel the pull. No need to think, no need to worry or wonder or doubt. No need to do anything but float in eternal bliss-that euphoria which some of you have taken to calling the ‘Gulf of Toyland.’ The problem is, our minds are not equipped for infinity, and I believe there’s a danger of getting lost in it, losing our way back. The only landmark in all of time is our residual humanity-that’s our sole point of reference, our one small island in an eternal sea. Lose touch with that, and we drift out into the unknown, our finite consciousness expanding outward until it disperses like smoke, leaving our bodies empty vessels, ripe for plucking by whatever alien will is constantly insinuating itself upon us. In other words, we will become true zombies-that’s zombies with a ‘z’-mindless slaves to that controlling intelligence.”

“How do you know that intelligence isn’t God?”

“Yeah,” others agreed, “maybe it’s God. Maybe we’re supposed to submit to His will.”

“Maybe,” Langhorne said. “Or maybe it’s the Devil, did you think of that? Although in a contest between the Devil and Uri Miska, I’d put my money on Miska.”

At lunchtime, I went into the cafeteria. There was no food being served, but many students had brought their own lunches, according to instructions. Since Xombies only needed a tiny fraction of all this food we were eating, most of it passed right through us undigested. The bathrooms became popular student hangouts.

In the cafeteria, I noticed something odd. Blues and Clears were not sitting together.

All my original Dreadnauts had assembled at one table, and I automatically went over there.

“What’s going on?” I asked Julian Noteiro.

He was tentatively peeling a hard-boiled egg. I wondered where he had found it. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean why is the room divided up like this?”

“Oh, that. Yeah. I didn’t really notice.”

I went to a table of Clears and sat down. These were all boys from the boat, not strangers, and I knew most of their names. Speaking to a guy named Virgil Kinkaide, I asked, “Why aren’t you guys sitting with any Blues?”

They ignored me.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I believe I asked you a question.”

Instead of answering, they all got up and stationed themselves at another table. Intrigued, I followed and sat down with them again. When they tried to get up once more, I grabbed Virgil by the ear and slammed his head down on the table, pinning his neck with my elbow.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he squealed.

“What is this? Why can’t I sit with you?”

“You’re Blue.”

“What?”

“Blues and Clears don’t sit together. Go sit at a Blue table.”

“Are you serious?”

“Blues sit with Blues, Clears sit with Clears-everybody knows that.”

“Why?”

He seemed reluctant to answer.

“Who came up with this?”

“All of us. Yesterday, on the bus.”

“I wasn’t on the bus.”

“Well, now you know. So deal with it.”

Interesting, I thought.

After lunch we had Gym, which initially consisted of tryouts for various sports teams: football, baseball, track and field, gymnastics. I recoiled from any of these, having only negative associations with school athletics programs. But there was also to be a marching band. When I saw that the band consisted entirely of Clear guys, I immediately signed up.

“You can’t do that,” said the Clear band captain, a bearded Ex named Henry Bartholomew, whose nephew Jake was one of my best Blues.

“I just did.”

“Well, go and unsign. We’re full up.”

“I’m staying. So deal with it.”

“There’s no way. What are you, ten years old?”

“I’m eighteen.” But he refused to admit me until I said, “I have an idea. Why don’t you go complain to Principal Albemarle?”

Instead of facing big blue Ed, he disbanded the band. After that, the Clears withdrew from most official school activities, forming clubs of their own.

I could sympathize to a degree. In this world, Blue was normal; Blue was the mainstream. Clears could, of course, choose to look Blue, camouflage themselves to resemble everyone else, but that required constant effort on their part, a burden none of the rest of us was subjected to. So it was either accept the strain of conforming, or give up and be… different. They chose to be different.

I chose to join the cheerleading squad. I was intrigued by the idea of being a cheerleader, as it was something I never would have considered in my mortal life, when my physical awkwardness, small size, and bad attitude relegated me to the society of misfits, making anything to do with sports or “school spirit” loathsome. Also, my mother called cheer-leading “Red State porn.”

After school, Lemuel came up to me, and haltingly asked, “D’uh, hey, Lulu, would you like to go to the malt shop with me?”

“Jesus, Lemuel, cut the moron act.”

“Sorry-it’s just that Dr. Langhorne wants us to stay in character. We’re supposed to be examples to the others.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?”

“Well… ”

“Because I’m not really your girlfriend, you know. I mean, if there even is such a thing anymore as boyfriends and girlfriends. I don’t have those feelings; I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have those feelings, or you just don’t have those feelings for me?”

“I don’t know. What the hell difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me.”

“Fine! I have no feelings.”

Lemuel seemed slightly placated. “So how about the malt shop? A bunch of us are going.”

“Yeah, sure, why not? Malt shop-unbelievable!”

When we arrived at the malt shop, the joint was humming-literally. There was a large generator out front spewing exhaust. But the power was on, the neon sign was lit, and the jukebox was playing “Sugar Sugar.” It looked cozy and hospitable, but once inside I could see that Blues were only sitting with Blues, and Clears with Clears. Sal DeLuca sat slumped at the lunch counter, arguing with Emilio Monte, who was dressed like a short-order cook.

“I ain’t makin’ no fifteen hamburgers,” Emilio said.

“But you have to,” Sal insisted, pointing his finger at the pages of a comic book. “It’s right here. It’s my character.”

“I don’t care if it’s your character, the point is I got no meat, kid. No meat, no buns, no cheese, no lettuce, no onions, no tomato. Also no gas to cook it on, you understand? All I got is whatever’s left in tin cans. The refrigerators work, but there ain’t nothing in ’em. You bring me a cow and a charcoal grill, and I’ll make as many hamburgers as you can eat.”

“Well, what do you have?”

“Ah,” Monte said, raising a finger. He leaned down behind the counter and emerged with a box of crackers and a big glass jar. “How do you feel about pickle chips on stale Saltines?”

Before Sal could reply, the door burst open. From out of the darkness, a large, skinned carcass slid across the checker-tiled floor, leaving a red swash. It was a deer-a big buck.

“There’re your hamburgers, Emil,” said former commander Harvey Coombs. He was wearing a coonskin cap and holding a propane gas cylinder on one shoulder. Following behind were Dan Robles and Phil Tran, both dragging sacks of foraged wild goods: potatoes, onions, carrots, various greens. There was a whole truckload of the stuff outside.

The dead animal shocked us-death of any kind was disturbing to those who could not die. I suspected this was one of Langhorne’s tests.

As the restaurant went silent, Emilio Monte stormed out from behind the counter, yelling, “I just waxed this floor!” Ranting about the mess, he slipped on blood and went airborne, crackers flying, and landed flat on his back. The pickle jar shattered, launching sliced gherkins in all directions.

Sal said, “That’s no way to make a buck!”

Everyone laughed and laughed. The new Xombies were slower on the uptake, but quickly caught on, screeching like hyenas. Then the laughter abruptly petered out. The scene was over, no point running it into the ground.