truth. Best they can do is keep us locked up in here, alive. Now who wants to go and who wants to stay?”
It was a landslide. Even Ed Albemarle grudgingly nodded, causing a cheer.
In the midst of the excitement, I bit my lip and tapped Cowper on the shoulder. Trying to speak privately, I said, “Um, Fred? How can we get out if we’re locked in here?”
He smiled thinly and patted my head. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
Getting out of the building was a piece of cake. Albemarle dispatched a handful of the bigger boys to a supply room, the “tool crib,” and they returned with armloads of welding and cutting implements that they obviously knew how to use.
“Hey, Mr. Albemarle,” one of the boys said, looking like a blacksmith as he donned protective leathers. “Is there an SSP for this?” The joking question raised a laugh.
“Yeah,” Albemarle shot back, “Shipyard Standard Procedure says kiss my ass. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not doing things by the book anymore. So stop screwing around and get that door open.”
The door he meant was not the door we’d come in through, but the sixty-foot-high hangar doors. They’d been secured by a mammoth chain strung through holes in the metal like something out of King Kong . Trundled up to it on a rolling scaffold, the boys applied their blinding blue flare to one of the bagel-thick links, making a tremendous zapping sound and showers of sparks. “Don’t look at it,” Cowper said, a little late. Steel dripped like burning tallow, then, just like that, the chain clanked apart.
“All right, roll ’er open!” Albemarle bellowed. “Everybody behind the Sallie, heads down! We’re going on parade!”
The “Sallie” was the deejay’s platform. It was a freight-carrying goliath, all wheels and deck (the word SALLIE cast in steel above its low front cockpit), which started up with a ground-shaking rumble and rolled forward on nine rows of tires. It reminded me of the vehicle NASA used to transport spacecraft to the launch pad, though somewhat smaller. Men and boys fell in behind its twin rear cab as it approached the parting doors. When it passed us, Cowper and I joined the crowd.
“Stay close,” he said, pinching my bicep.
People gave me plenty of room, so that for once I didn’t feel claustrophobic, as I often did in groups. In fact, I was able to take comfort from the sheer size of the crowd. We were an army.
“ You’re not coming,” someone said to me from behind, but I ignored him and kept moving.
We streamed out of the hangar at a fast walk, the crawler bearing right to make for the inner guardpost. It was deserted. The main gate was behind us, mostly hidden by buildings, but we could hear the commotion there—sounds like rioting hooligans with firecrackers—and see the dim orange glow of flames illuminating the draped fence like a paper screen, on which life-size shadow puppets danced. Men could be glimpsed running along a catwalk at the top, dodging mangled hands that lunged spastically at them through the razor wire.
After seeing a guard yanked into the lacerating coils by those obscene blue things, I didn’t dare look back anymore, covering my ears to muffle the screams. A wave of gibbering fear swept the crowd, causing some boys to fall and almost be trampled, but Cowper and Albemarle kept yelling, “Eyes forward! Keep moving! Eyes forward—look where you’re going!” and it seemed to help even though we could barely see where we were going.
Heading down a grassy slope, we descended into gloom, with pale, unlit buildings rising like sunken ships out of the fog and our only illumination the haloed caution lights of the Sallie. Smells of seaweed, tar, and diesel exhaust mingled in the air. It was a strange, ghostly parade all right, with the Sallie its unadorned float.
“What’s it like out there?” asked a boy to my left. He was the one in the chipmunk costume, and was carrying its head under his arm. It
It was a landslide. Even Ed Albemarle grudgingly nodded, causing a cheer.
In the midst of the excitement, I bit my lip and tapped Cowper on the shoulder. Trying to speak privately, I said, “Um, Fred? How can we get out if we’re locked in here?”
He smiled thinly and patted my head. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
Getting out of the building was a piece of cake. Albemarle dispatched a handful of the bigger boys to a supply room, the “tool crib,” and they returned with armloads of welding and cutting implements that they obviously knew how to use.
“Hey, Mr. Albemarle,” one of the boys said, looking like a blacksmith as he donned protective leathers. “Is there an SSP for this?” The joking question raised a laugh.
“Yeah,” Albemarle shot back, “Shipyard Standard Procedure says kiss my ass. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not doing things by the book anymore. So stop screwing around and get that door open.”
The door he meant was not the door we’d come in through, but the sixty-foot-high hangar doors. They’d been secured by a mammoth chain strung through holes in the metal like something out of King Kong . Trundled up to it on a rolling scaffold, the boys applied their blinding blue flare to one of the bagel-thick links, making a tremendous zapping sound and showers of sparks. “Don’t look at it,” Cowper said, a little late. Steel dripped like burning tallow, then, just like that, the chain clanked apart.
“All right, roll ’er open!” Albemarle bellowed. “Everybody behind the Sallie, heads down! We’re going on parade!”
The “Sallie” was the deejay’s platform. It was a freight-carrying goliath, all wheels and deck (the word SALLIE cast in steel above its low front cockpit), which started up with a ground-shaking rumble and rolled forward on nine rows of tires. It reminded me of the vehicle NASA used to transport spacecraft to the launch pad, though somewhat smaller. Men and boys fell in behind its twin rear cab as it approached the parting doors. When it passed us, Cowper and I joined the crowd.
“Stay close,” he said, pinching my bicep.
People gave me plenty of room, so that for once I didn’t feel claustrophobic, as I often did in groups. In fact, I was able to take comfort from the sheer size of the crowd. We were an army.
“ You’re not coming,” someone said to me from behind, but I ignored him and kept moving.
We streamed out of the hangar at a fast walk, the crawler bearing right to make for the inner guardpost. It was deserted. The main gate was behind us, mostly hidden by buildings, but we could hear the commotion there—sounds like rioting hooligans with firecrackers—and see the dim orange glow of flames illuminating the draped fence like a paper screen, on which life-size shadow puppets danced. Men could be glimpsed running along a catwalk at the top, dodging mangled hands that lunged spastically at them through the razor wire.
After seeing a guard yanked into the lacerating coils by those obscene blue things, I didn’t dare look back anymore, covering my ears to muffle the screams. A wave of gibbering fear swept the crowd, causing some boys to fall and almost be trampled, but Cowper and Albemarle kept yelling, “Eyes forward! Keep moving! Eyes forward—look where you’re going!” and it seemed to help even though we could barely see where we were going.
Heading down a grassy slope, we descended into gloom, with pale, unlit buildings rising like sunken ships out of the fog and our only illumination the haloed caution lights of the Sallie. Smells of seaweed, tar, and diesel exhaust mingled in the air. It was a strange, ghostly parade all right, with the Sallie its unadorned float.
“What’s it like out there?” asked a boy to my left. He was the one in the chipmunk costume, and was carrying its head under his arm. It
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