The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z)

by Manel Loureiro

  Instead of guards in riot gear on the other side of the barrier, there stood a man of about sixty, wearing a suit and a huge Stetson hat, holding a Bible. His face gave nothing away as he stared at the carnage.

  That asshole’s praying, Grapes thought, as the old man’s lips moved soundlessly. The man absentmindedly rubbed his right knee, pulled some keys out of his pocket, and headed for the door. But then he stopped, as if he’d suddenly remembered something.

  “Do you men fear of the wrath of the Lord?” he asked.

  Grapes shook his head, wondering if he’d heard correctly. I must be hallucinating in this heat. “What’d you say, Reverend?”

  “I asked if you men fear of the wrath of the Lord,” Greene said patiently.

  When Grapes got to his feet, the corpse of the Puerto Rican man fell to the floor with a thud. His sweeping gesture encompassed the entire bus as he turned back to the man behind the barrier. “Look around, Reverend. We are the fucking wrath of the Lord.”

  The old man seemed pleased by that answer and nodded in satisfaction. “I see you’ve cleaned up the scum and sin on this bus. Those bastard races have no place in New Jerusalem.” His hypnotic voice silenced even the most disrespectful Aryans. “But the real evil is out there, ready to pounce on this corner of the world that God is protecting. So I ask you, if I free you, will you be the instrument of the Lord’s wrath?”

  “We’ll be whatever you want, Reverend, just get us off this fucking bus.”

  “Alright.” Greene’s face lit up as if he had found the solution to a particularly difficult puzzle. “But first, let us pray to enlighten your souls. Please kneel.”

  “What the hell’s this lunatic saying?” Seth snarled.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Grapes growled. He couldn’t take his eyes off the preacher. “Do what he says. Kneel and pray. If you don’t, I’ll kick your teeth out your ass.”

  The Aryan Nations members knelt and prayed along with Greene, who whispered, eyes closed, arms raised toward the sky, his face contorted in ecstasy.

  At the end of the prayer, Greene unlocked the door with the ring of keys he’d found in the police station. Then he walked down the aisle, unlocking the prisoners’ shackles, stepping over the bodies of the murdered prisoners as if they were piles of garbage. He held out his Bible for every Aryan to kiss and laid his hands on their heads.

  Grapes had to bend over so the reverend could lay his hands on his bald head. The moment Greene touched him, Grapes felt an electric current run through his body from head to toe. He gasped in surprise and stared at Greene. He had to lean against the seat to keep from falling. The reverend’s eyes were fiery black pools. Grapes thought he saw sparks of madness in the midst of those flames, shrouded in a suffocating evil darkness so thick he could almost touch it.

  The preacher terrified him, but at the same time, the dark force in the strange man filled Grapes with the most forceful feeling he’d ever experienced. In prison he’d met some of the craziest, most evil men imaginable, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the menacing energy radiating from the reverend’s eyes. Grapes understood the man and feared him. He fell completely under the preacher’s spell. Whatever it was, he loved the guy.

  “Who do you want knocked off, Reverend?” he asked respectfully.

  “Follow me and I’ll show you,” said Greene as he climbed off the bus. Grapes was surprised to see that the preacher dragged his right leg. He was sure the man hadn’t been limping when he climbed on the bus.

  Outside, Grapes saw that the rest of his men were being released too. Forty-four Aryans stood on the parking lot, squinting, looking around as if they couldn’t believe they were outside with no chains, no walls, and no guards.

  A van was parked in front of them. The sign on its side read:

  MUNICIPAL SERVICES OF GULFPORT

  —WHERE YOUR SHIP COMES IN

  Two people stood beside the van: a tall, burly guy who looked like he was used to being obeyed and a short, bald, potbellied sheriff in his fifties who looked extremely nervous. Can’t blame him, thought Grapes. I’ll bet he’s wondering what the fuck he’ll do if we suddenly go apeshit. But nobody was going to do that. The reverend said he needed someone killed, and Grapes would’ve killed his own mother just to see the black force in that man’s eyes.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Reverend Greene . . .” said the tall guy, trying to act important.

  His name is Greene, Grapes thought.

  “Arming these guys might’ve been a bad idea . . .” The sheriff’s whiny voice chimed in as he wrung his hands.

  “It’s a revelation from the Lord Himself. God told me Gulfport would be a safe place, a New Jerusalem. He told me these sinners are part of His divine plan.” The reverend was on a roll. He took Grapes by the shoulder. “This man’s name is—”

  “Malachi Grapes,” the ex-con heard himself say.

  “Malachi.” Greene mulled over the biblical name with delight. “He’s a soldier of Christ and he won’t have any trouble getting rid of those things.”

  Gulfport had always been a quiet place. The worst problem the police had to deal with was the occasional wayward teenager or obnoxious drunk. The idea of having forty gang members armed with assault rifles around town didn’t inspire confidence. It dawned on the sheriff that he and his one deputy would have to confront them if things took a bad turn. But the reverend seemed so sure. Since he’d turned up, life in Gulfport had gone extremely well—even while the rest of the world went to hell. Until that morning, when those Undead monsters invaded the Bluefont subdivision, south of town.

  The reverend seemed to cast the same spell on Mayor Morgan, who stared at the huge Aryan gang member for a few seconds, then made a decision. “In this truck are assault rifles and ammunition. Five minutes from here is a neighborhood in trouble. At least fifteen of those things showed up. We don’t know what shape the residents are in. You need to go in there, wipe out the monsters, and rescue my people. Can you do that?”

  As an answer, Grape opened the truck’s tailgate, grabbed an M16 and a magazine, and with the expertise that comes from lots of practice, loaded it in the blink of an eye.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but you have my word that tonight they’ll be dining with Satan.”

  Grapes passed around the weapons. Bunched up at the back of the van was a green tarp some worker had left there. In a flash of inspiration, Grapes tore it into strips, tied one around his bicep, and handed the rest to his boys.

  “Since we are Reverend Greene’s soldiers of God, shouldn’t we wear a green armband?” He flashed a wolfish grin at his men.

  Greene nodded, pleased, but that idea was a bitter pill Stan Morgan had to swallow. He liked to have the upper hand, and he had the feeling they were leaving him out. “I don’t want any complaints from the neighbors,” Stan said. “No theft, looting, or destruction of property. Finish off those monsters and come straight back. Got it?”

  “Whatever you say, boss. Come on, boys! Let’s kick some ass!”

  Ten minutes later, they were at the entrance to Bluefont, a subdivision of about three hundred houses. A deep river, crossed by two bridges, ran in front of it and emptied into a marsh nearby. The south side of the river was being guarded by a kid right out of high school and a handful of men in their fifties armed with hunting rifles, all about to shit their pants.

  “The Undead entered by the north bridge,” one of them said. “The Wall isn’t closed on that side yet. Ted Krumble and his boys were supposed to be watching the bridge. We heard shots and an explosion an hour ago. I don’t know what the devil happened to them. We’ve been calling them on the radio ever since, but they don’t answer. That’s all we know.”

  Grapes nodded, guardedly. “Who are these . . . what’d you call ’em . . . Undead?”

  The guards looked at him with amazement. Annoyed, Ma
lachi explained they didn’t get any newspapers in prison, so they had no idea what was going on. The men quickly brought him up to speed. The gang quietly absorbed the information. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe those frightened old men, but surely the situation wasn’t as serious as they made it sound. Probably just some guys on a rampage. A few ounces of lead would fix that problem.

  “On the radio, they said you gotta shoot ’em in the head,” a resident said in a frightened voice.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Grapes strode quickly across the bridge, followed closely by his men.

  Once on the other side, he noticed that something wasn’t right. Bluefont was a typical American suburb with big houses and gardens, the kind of place rich white people moved to as soon as they got the chance. But they didn’t see anyone on the street. A lawn mower was lying on its side, still running. Its bag had come off and grass clippings floated down the sidewalk on a gentle breeze. A Subaru sat in the middle of the street, its engine running, all its doors standing wide open. Grapes carefully reached in and turned off the engine. The silence was unsettling. Then they heard the groans coming from the north end of the subdivision.

  “Trent, take Bonder, Ken, and three other guys. Cover those houses. The rest of you, go house to house in groups of three. Make sure they’re empty. If you steal so much as a pen, I’ll personally rip your guts out. Got that?”

  The men nodded and split into groups. Grapes continued down the center of the street, on high alert, followed by three guys—Seth Fretzen, a small, quiet guy named Crupps, and a fat, bearded guy they called Sweet Pussy, God knows why.

  They came to an abrupt stop at one house. The door was ajar and there was a puddle of fresh blood on the ground. Someone had leaned against the doorframe and left a bloody handprint. A drop of blood trickled slowly down the white wood.

  Something shattered inside the house. Grapes signaled for his men to stay close as they headed for the porch. He climbed the staircase slowly, trying not to make any noise, but the stairs creaked with each step.

  When he reached the door, he thrust the barrel of his M16 inside. The interior was dark and cool. A hallway led to a living room in the back. On the right was a staircase to the upstairs; blood was splashed on several steps. Someone had dragged himself along the wall. All the pictures that once hung there now lay shattered on the ground.

  He gestured to Seth and Crupps to head upstairs. With Sweet Pussy at his heels, he walked down the hall to the living room.

  The room screamed, My owner is fucking rich. The furniture was high-end. A dozen people would fit on the sofa. A monstrous TV hung on the wall. The carpet was so thick, if a coin fell onto it, no one would ever find it.

  Sweet Pussy tugged on his sleeve and pointed to the ground. In one corner, next to a huge china cabinet, lay a broken vase. That must be what they had heard crash.

  A dragging sound came from the kitchen. They stepped over the broken vase and eased up to the door. Grapes stopped in his tracks, stunned.

  A girl in her early twenties swayed in the middle of the room, a blank look in her eyes. She was tall, slim, with a great body. She was wearing nothing but a tiny thong.

  She must be stoned out of her mind, Grapes thought. It was hard to tear his eyes away from the girl’s perky boobs. Straight blond hair hid half of her face. She hadn’t noticed the two men enter the room.

  Something’s wrong with this picture. His brain was shouting warnings, but he couldn’t fit the pieces together. Sweet Pussy came up behind him. When he saw the naked girl, his eyes opened wide.

  “Fuck! Hello, gorgeous!” he exclaimed and walked up to the girl. “You see this, Grapes? What a rack—”

  With a lustful leer, Sweet Pussy reached for the girl’s breasts, which were covered with burst veins. The girl looked at him with dead eyes and, before he could react, sank her teeth into his neck.

  The Aryan let out a surprised shout and shoved the girl away. With the butt of his rifle, he struck her face and shattered her front teeth. Grapes stared in amazement. Instead of collapsing, the girl threw herself on Sweet Pussy again, as if nothing had happened.

  Things got crazy fast. Sweet Pussy tried to hit the girl again, but her bite had severed his carotid. He didn’t know it, but his brain was already dying. He swung wide, but couldn’t stop the girl from pouncing on him. They rolled on the ground as a mountain of dishes crashed around them. With a shove, he was able to back up a few feet and fire his M16 at the girl.

  The hollow-point bullets opened a huge hole in the girl’s abdomen and sent her flying backward. Her body slid slowly down the wall as her guts spilled out.

  “Grapes . . .” Sweet Pussy stuttered, lying on the floor, as he put his hand on his neck. “Grapes . . . help . . . me.”

  Grapes knew the guy was done for. Blood streamed out of his neck as his heart kept pumping, trying to feed his dying brain. The light went out in Sweet Pussy’s eyes, but Grapes wasn’t paying any attention to that. The naked girl had risen again.

  With an unintelligible moan, she stumbled toward him, stepping on broken dishes, her feet tangled up in the intestines spilling out of her abdomen.

  Grapes raised his rifle and blew the top of the girl’s head off. Her forehead split open like a rotten orange, splattering blood and bone graffiti on the wall behind her. Only then did the girl fall to the ground, dead as a doornail.

  “Let’s see you get up now, bitch.” Grapes kicked the girl’s buttocks. Then he heard a noise behind him.

  Sweet Pussy was struggling to his feet, skidding and flailing around like a drunk. Grapes turned and almost fell backward at the sight. The guy’s neck was torn and his prison jumpsuit was drenched with his blood. The worst part was that Sweet Pussy’s skin was covered with thousands of small veins.

  “Hey, Sweet Pussy,” Grapes said, with a strange tremor in his voice. “You look really bad, buddy. Someone should take a look at that wound . . .”

  Sweet Pussy didn’t answer. He raised his head and looked at Grapes with the same lifeless expression as the girl. With a low growl, he lunged at Grapes but stumbled on the girl’s leg and fell to the ground, smashing the rest of the dishes.

  He’s like her. Vampires or something. Grapes’s mind was racing as he raised his rifle. Three feet away, he couldn’t miss. He fired three shots into Sweet Pussy’s heart and chest. What was left of the Aryan got up, as if Grapes had blown him kisses.

  “You gotta be dead!” Malachi yelled, terrified for the first time since he was sixteen and in reform school. With the bitter taste of panic in his mouth, he held the barrel eight inches from Sweet Pussy’s face and opened fire. Sweet Pussy’s face disappeared in a mass of red jelly. He collapsed onto the girl’s body and finally stopped moving.

  The room smelled of blood and gunpowder. Grapes leaned against the china cabinet, shaking. That’s not possible; it’s just not possible, he thought over and over. Then he heard gunshots coming from the top floor and an explosion a few blocks away. It dawned on him that kicking these things’ asses would be a lot harder than he’d thought.

  Six hours later, thirty-three exhausted Aryans, trembling and covered in blood, regrouped at the south entrance to the bridge. They’d cleaned out Bluefont, but it had taken a terrifying toll. Reverend Greene was waiting for them with a radiant smile. The neighbors gazed at them with reverence. Those fellas had saved Bluefont. Greene’s boys had saved Gulfport. The reverend must truly be blessed by God.

  Grapes walked up to the reverend, asking himself, Is this really the right place for him and his men? It must be even worse outside of that town. Then Greene gave him that look. Grapes gasped as the black force hit him, and he struggled to catch his breath.

  Malachi Grapes realized he’d found his place in the world. A fucking great place.

  16

  “Sir, they’re here.” Susan Compton, the reverend’s private secretary, waddled aroun
d on her short legs. She was in her late fifties, heavyset, myopic, and uglier than sin, but she was extremely efficient and ran the mayor’s office with an iron fist.

  “Show them in, Susan.” Reverend Greene walked behind his desk and sat down in the big chair that had belonged to Stan Morgan (God rest his soul, amen, hallelujah). The mayor of Gulfport had conveniently died of a heart attack the week after he appointed Greene his chief advisor, handing the city to the reverend on a silver platter.

  Reverend Greene’s knee had been throbbing off and on all day, but just then the pain went up a notch.

  Five people followed Mrs. Compton through the door. Malachi Grapes led the way, followed by Officer Strangärd. Greene was more interested in the three people behind him.

  First came a tall, thin man around thirty, with tangled black hair and a wary look on his face. Close behind him strode a blond guy with strange blue eyes and a bushy mustache. The third member of the group was a tall, very pretty young girl, with a huge orange cat asleep in her arms. Most importantly, all three were white.

  “Welcome to New Jerusalem, my children! Welcome to Gulfport, the Lord’s fortress, home of the Righteous and the Second Coming of Christ!” The reverend walked over and laid hands on each of them.

  “It was a long trip here,” replied the tall guy, confused by the reverend’s gesture.

  “I’m anxious to hear the story from your own lips, but first I would like Officer Strangärd to tell me how God put you on the path to salvation.” The reverend waved Grapes out of the room, thinking, Let not your right hand know what your left is doing, saith the Lord.

  The officer related how the trio had sent up flares and described their rescue in the middle of the storm. Strangärd narrated the story in a methodical, professional way. When he’d finished, he relaxed slightly and waited patiently for the reverend to ask questions.