The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z)

by Manel Loureiro

  Reverend Greene nodded. He was sure Captain Birley’s report would corroborate the first mate’s version. Have eyes and ears everywhere, he thought. That wasn’t from the Bible. His father said that—one of the few things he’d learned from the crazy drunk.

  “That will be all, Strangärd.” Greene ushered him to the door. “I don’t want to take up your valuable time. I’m sure Captain Birley needs your help unloading the Ithaca.”

  The Swede started to protest, but Greene stood firm. Once they were alone in the office, he invited the three shipwrecked people to take a seat.

  “Alright, now. Please begin,” he said and leaned back in his chair.

  Their spokesman was the tall man, who he said he’d been a lawyer before the Apocalypse. Occasionally the blond guy added something. The girl just nodded, stroking the cat absentmindedly.

  “ . . . when we reached Tenerife,” the lawyer said, “we were surprised to discover that the island was full of refugees from all over Europe.”

  “Full of refugees?” Greene sprang out of his chair. “Weren’t there any Undead?”

  “No, the island was safe, like Gulfport, but living conditions were harder. All those people consumed huge amounts of resources. Life was hard, but people had dignity.”

  “And there were no Hitler-style racial-purity laws,” the girl grumbled, scowling.

  The lawyer shot the girl a warning look, but Greene wasn’t listening. His mind was racing. An island full of refugees! Someplace besides Gulfport where people had survived the Apocalypse! Cold sweat ran down his back. Did that mean that Gulfport wasn’t the New Jerusalem, that they weren’t the only lambs saved by the Lord? If they weren’t the only ones . . . No, that was impossible.

  Reverend Greene knew he was the Prophet. The savior of the Righteous. Everyone in Gulfport believed that, and he drove home the idea in his daily sermons. The community never questioned his leadership. If the people of Gulfport found out there were other refuges, they might decide they didn’t have to rely on the reverend for their salvation, that his ideas weren’t the Lord’s revelations. I can’t let that happen.

  The lawyer finished his story. Greene studied them in silence, then leaned forward with a huge smile on his face. “Dear brothers and sister! You’re like the prodigal son. You have walked through the valley of the shadows to the land of milk and honey, where the lamb and the lion lie down together. Henceforth the Christian Republic of Gulfport shall be your home.”

  “We greatly appreciate that, Reverend,” said the lawyer, relieved. “Of course, we’re willing to help out in any way we can. If there’s anything we can do . . .”

  “Yes, my son, I do have a huge favor to ask of you.”

  “What is that?”

  “I must ask you to not tell your story to anyone. Not a soul. Have you told anyone?”

  “Captain Birley knows.” The lawyer thought for a moment, then continued. “Now that you mention it, none of the other officers asked any questions.”

  Well done, Birley, Reverend Greene thought. You certainly know how to keep your men in line. Now I see why that damn Swede was so anxious to stick around.

  “Well,” Greene continued, taking a moment to think up an excuse. “That’s good. I need you to keep the secret for one simple reason. If the good and pious people of Gulfport found out that there are needy people on the other side of the world, they’d insist on undertaking an expedition to rescue everyone from darkness and sin.”

  “I understand,” said the lawyer. A warning bell went off in his head.

  Experienced in detecting lies and half-truths, Greene noticed the nervous glances the three exchanged. They were hiding something. I don’t want to know a thing about Tanereefay or whatever the hell that place is called. They were on the run when they met up with the Ithaca. Something had spooked them.

  “The good people of Gulfport would gladly risk their lives to undertake such a trip. That’s the kind of faithful followers of Christ they are.” The reverend opened his arms, as if embracing that multitude. “But I must watch over my flock. I can’t allow them to launch a suicide mission to bring all those people to the safety of Gulfport. So I ask for your silence. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Reverend,” the lawyer quickly assured him. “Our lips are sealed.”

  “But people have the right to know there are other survivors around the world!” the girl protested. “If they don’t know, they’re like prisoners in this city! All those people, those ‘helots,’ are entitled to decide if they want to live elsewhere, someplace they’re not treated like criminals!”

  “Lucia, this isn’t the time for that,” the lawyer cut her off. “The reverend asked us a favor, just one favor in return for his hospitality. I think we owe him that.”

  Lucia opened her mouth to add something. Seeing the lawyer’s stern look, she stopped, pressed her lips in a tense line, and stroked the cat so hard he yowled in protest.

  “My dear child,” interrupted Greene, in a pious voice. “Let me tell you a story. Long ago, there was a Greek city named Sparta. Certainly they were wicked idolaters who worshiped false gods of clay, far from the Light of our Lord, yet it was an admirable society in many ways. The Spartans were surrounded by enemies who wanted them dead at any cost, as it is with us today. To survive, they created a caste called ‘helots’ who cultivated their fields, tended their cattle, and provided all material goods, thus allowing the Spartans to devote their time to defending their walls. And so it is here. That is precisely why we have our helots.”

  “Who decides if a person is a helot or not?” Lucia asked in a small voice.

  “The Lord God, of course,” Greene said, genuinely surprised. “Adam and Eve were white. So were the Apostles, Moses, and all the prophets in the Bible. God decided that. The other races are either mongrels, like those Mexicans, or the fruits of sin, like the Negros who bear the mark of that sin on their skin. They live under our holy protection so they can atone for their wicked ways.”

  Lucia made a colossal effort to bite her tongue as Prit shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Only the lawyer kept a passive look on his face, not betraying the slightest emotion.

  “Reverend,” the lawyer said in an even voice. “Where we come from, that way of thinking would be frowned upon. Please understand—”

  “No!” Greene cut in, slapping his hand on the table. “There’s nothing to understand! Because of mankind’s negligence, tolerance, and hedonism, God has punished the human race! For years I warned that this would happen, but no one listened! Everyone ignored me! Do you understand? Then it was too late! I was right! I am the Prophet!” Greene was on his feet and waving his arms wildly as he spoke, his eyes feverish. His tie had come loose and he spewed tiny flecks of spit. “God has unleashed His fury because we’ve lived side by side with queers, Communists, blacks, Indians, and Latinos! Until we get back on the righteous path, there will be no Second Coming! If you don’t accept this truth, there’s no room in Gulfport for you!”

  Greene slumped in his chair, panting. He poured a glass of water with a trembling hand. Drops of water spilled on his chest as he drank.

  “Well? What’s your answer? What side of the Wall are you on?

  “We . . .” the Ukrainian began.

  “We accept your hospitality and your rules, Reverend Greene,” the lawyer broke in. “We promise to be good citizens of Gulfport.”

  “But this is—” Lucia started to say. The lawyer’s eyes told her to shut up.

  “Is she your wife?” asked the reverend.

  “She’s my girlfriend, but I don’t see what—”

  “Keep her on a tight leash, my friend. ‘Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. Suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.’ Timothy 2, 11–12.” Reverend Greene recited from memory, caressing his Bible. “The Lord tells us w
here a women’s place is. They are mothers and wives, but their brains are clearly not made for thinking.”

  “Don’t worry, Reverend. She’ll learn to control her tongue,” said the lawyer, giving Lucia another look. Red-faced with anger and humiliation, the girl looked down and stroked the cat.

  “In that case, I think we’re done. Mrs. Compton will tell you where your new home is. There’s plenty of space in Gulfport. When you see where you’re living, you’ll be—”

  The door flew open. What now? This meeting isn’t going the way I’d hoped.

  Malachi Grapes stood in the doorway, looking nervous and shifting uneasily from side to side as if he needed to take a piss.

  “What’s the matter, Malachi?” Greene asked, extremely annoyed. Everyone knew not to interrupt the reverend except in an extreme emergency.

  “There’s problems with the helots from the Ithaca, Reverend. A Mexican group refuses to accept their payment. They’re arguing about something, but I have no idea what they’re saying. They don’t speak English, just that Spanish shit.” Grapes put his hand over his mouth.

  “Excuse my language, Reverend.”

  “How dare they!” The reverend sprang to his feet and pointed his calloused finger at Grapes. “Teach them a lesson! Kill half of them! That’ll put them in their place!”

  “No!” Lucia blurted out. The Ukrainian and the lawyer turned to her, shocked by the passion in her trembling voice. “Don’t kill them, Reverend! I beg you!”

  “Shut up, girl!” the reverend snapped. “Grapes, you know what to do.”

  “Right away, Reverend.”

  The Aryan turned and started out the door. The lawyer jumped to his feet.

  Now what? thought Greene.

  “Just a minute, Reverend. Spanish is my native language. Let me talk to them. Maybe I can find out what their demands are and avoid bloodshed.”

  Greene sat back down and mulled over the lawyer’s words. There were hundreds of helots. They could always be replaced, but the situation was still explosive, and a purge wouldn’t calm that down. He couldn’t risk an all-out rebellion.

  “Alright,” he said, as he grabbed his hat. “Come with me. Your wife and your friend can go to their new home. Mrs. Compton will escort them.”

  Without another word, he strode out of the room. The lawyer exchanged a few rushed, angry words with his friends, but Greene was too enraged to care. You fix the problems in your home. I have to fix my problem. Now.

  Grapes waited behind the wheel of the Humvee with the engine running. The reverend climbed in the back and the lawyer sat up front. They drove north for a few minutes in total silence, each lost in thought. When they arrived, the Humvee stopped at a bridge that crossed a wide river channel. A high, reinforced concrete wall, topped with barbed wire, ran along both shores. On the bridge was a rusted sign, riddled with bullet holes, that read, “Welcome to Bluefont!” Next to it stood a massive fortified tower that resembled something you’d expect to see on a castle from the Middle Ages, with searchlights on the top. Two Aryans were stationed up there behind M60 machine guns, aimed at the heavy steel gate that sealed off the bridge. On the other side of that gate was a group of about fifty helots shouting, shaking their fists, and throwing rocks and bottles at the tower. None of them was armed. The helots weren’t allowed to have weapons inside Gulfport’s borders.

  “Well, my son,” Greene said, getting out of the vehicle. “Here’s your chance. Show me what you got.”

  The lawyer got out of the Humvee and walked up to the steel door. An Aryan opened a side door and let him pass, slamming the door behind him.

  The helots fell silent when they saw the nervous lawyer. He took a deep breath and walked toward them, trying to look more confident than he felt.

  “Hello everyone,” he said in Spanish. “I’m here on behalf of Reverend Greene. What’s going on?”

  A tall, dark guy in a military uniform with the name tag “Dobzhansky” on the pocket stepped forward. “I’m Carlos Mendoza. Who’re you? Whaddaya want?”

  “I’m the guy who can stop those thugs from you wiping you out.” He pointed to the two Aryans with machine guns. “Tell me what the hell you want or Greene’ll order them to open fire. He’s right on the edge. So I’ll ask again, what’s going on?”

  “They tricked us!” bellowed a voice from the crowd. “They promised us ten liters per person, and we only got three!”

  A chorus of voices joined in. Carlos Mendoza raised his hand for silence and turned back to the lawyer.

  “You heard ’em. They owe each person who was on the Ithaca seven more liters of Cladoxpan. Tell your reverend we’re not moving till he gives us what he owes us.”

  “Cladoxpan? What’s that? Some kind of alcohol?”

  Mendoza sighed. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t know what Cladoxpan is? Where’d you come from? Wait a minute. You’re one of the shipwrecked people the Ithaca rescued, aren’t you?”

  The lawyer nodded uneasily. Mendoza laughed mirthlessly.

  “You gotta be fucking kidding me, man. Those assholes don’t have the balls to come to this side of the fence. They send some poor fool who doesn’t know shit.”

  “Tell me what you’re talking about and maybe I can help,” the lawyer replied calmly.

  “Cladoxpan’s a drug,” Mendoza explained as if he were talking to a child. “It keeps TSJ at very low levels so we can live as humans. We’re all infected with that fucking virus. If we don’t drink at least a pint of that stuff a day, we’re screwed. Got it, white boy?”

  The lawyer took a breath, thinking over what he’d heard. “So, it’s a palliative. Cladoxpan doesn’t cure TSJ. It just weakens it so it can’t take effect.”

  “Very good, Einstein,” Mendoza said bitterly. “It’s like insulin for diabetics. If we keep taking it, we’re fine. If we stop . . . it’s over. That asshole promised us ten liters if we got on that fucking ship, so he owes us seven more. We held up our end of the deal!”

  “How’d you get infected?” the lawyer asked, ignoring Mendoza’s demands.

  “How do you think, asshole?” Mendoza rolled up his sleeve. He had a huge scar on his shoulder from what was clearly a human bite. Part of the muscle was missing too.

  “Tell your fucking reverend to cough up what he owes us. We’re not moving till he does. Got that?”

  The lawyer nodded and slowly walked back to the steel door. On the other side, Greene was pacing beside the vehicle while Malachi Grapes barked orders to the heavily armed Aryans perched in the tower.

  “Well? What do they want?”

  “They say you owe them seven liters per person of something called Cladoxpan. They say you promised it to them in exchange for participating in the operation at Luba. They say they’re not moving till you give it to them.”

  The reverend turned bright red, and his lower lip trembled with rage. “Who do they think they are? Filthy, stinking wetbacks! I’ll kill ’em all! And good riddance! The wrath of the Lord will rain down on them! I won’t tolerate such insolence!”

  “Wait, Reverend,” interrupted the lawyer. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Killing them won’t solve the problem, and Gulfport will lose a lot of brave men. I saw how they fought in Luba. They’re real tough guys. If you kill them, it’ll take a lot of time to train other men to be that good, and the city will be vulnerable without well-trained helots.”

  Then, in a moment of inspiration, he blurted out, “On top of that, it would be an affront to God to wantonly destroy the useful tool He has placed in your hands.”

  Don’t lecture me, boy, thought Reverend Greene. But after he reflected for a few moments, he saw some truth in what the man was saying.

  “Fine. But I’ll only give them five liters each. Not one drop more. They can accept that or I’ll order my Green Guard to exterminate them—like a gardener weeding
his garden.” Without another word, he got back in the Humvee, his gaze straight ahead.

  The lawyer ran back to the other side of the Wall, where the helots waited restlessly. They debated Reverend Greene’s offer and then agreed.

  Mendoza scowled. “Tell your Reverend Greene we accept. But this isn’t over.”

  The lawyer nodded, relieved.

  As he walked away, Mendoza called to him. “Oh, hey.” The Mexican had a bold smile on his face. “Say hello to Lucia for me. Tell her I was glad we got a chance to talk and get acquainted. Tell her she can visit any time.” Then he turned and walked away, leaving the lawyer confused. Uneasy feelings swirled around in his heart.

  17

  It was almost dark when Grapes’s men dropped me off in front of the house we’d been assigned. A gentle rain was falling and light from the streetlights was pooling in strange shapes. It felt like the rain was seeping into my bones as a strange cold flooded over me.

  I was dirty, tired, and emotionally drained, but I lingered outside, delaying the inevitable. I didn’t have the energy to face what awaited me. Finally I climbed the front steps and entered my new home.

  It was a typical two-story suburban home with a lawn, a wooden porch, and a garage. The interior was welcoming and spacious, with expensive furniture that was too ornate for my tastes. On one wall hung an autographed photograph of Charlton Heston addressing the National Rifle Association, a gun raised over his head.

  “You’re finally here,” Pritchenko said, sticking his head out of the kitchen door. “We were worried. What happened?”

  “Long story short, Prit: this afternoon I saved fifty people from dying at the hands of religious fanatics.”

  “Well, at least you did something good,” the Ukrainian said sadly. “You’d better talk to Lucia. She’s really angry at you.”

  I sighed, downhearted. I couldn’t put off that conversation until the next day.

  “I’ll talk to her.” I patted my buddy on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, old friend.”