The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z)

by Manel Loureiro

  I shook off my doubts and fired. The spear flew out with a snap. The cable tied to it uncoiled at full speed. I counted in my head—fifteen feet, thirty, fifty . . . At seventy-five feet, it stopped dead. Trembling, I grabbed one end and tugged gently. Then I tugged harder, but the cable still didn’t give. We’d hooked onto the tanker.

  The sailboat’s winch, where the line was attached, groaned as we were dragged forward—but it held. The Corinth II had latched on like a remora to a whale and was moving alongside the huge ship. Inertia propelled our boat against the tanker’s hull, each blow tearing off sheets of carbon fiber and jarring us all to our bones.

  Sudden beams of light danced on the sailboat’s deck as several flashlights found us. At that distance, we couldn’t hear what the crew was saying, but they had to be asking themselves who the hell we were and how the hell we’d gotten there. After a few long minutes, they unwound a boarding net down the side of the tanker. It must’ve taken a titanic effort to haul that heavy net across their deck as the storm whipped around at full force. Whoever they were, they were determined to help us climb aboard.

  “Come on, before they change their minds!” Prit shouted.

  The Ukrainian grabbed hold of the net and scrambled up as agile as a monkey. Lucia settled Lucullus into my arms, gave me an excited kiss, and followed Pritchenko up the net. I stood on the deck of the sailboat with a knot in my stomach. The last time I’d boarded an unknown ship was in Vigo. That experience had not gone well. I hoped that, this time, there wouldn’t be anyone pointing a gun at me when I reached the deck. I tucked Lucullus into my slicker and cinched it tight. He squirmed around inside the improvised bag, then stuck his head out the neck hole.

  With a last backward glance, I started up the net, wrapped in the smell of wet fur. I realized we’d left all our gear on the sailboat. Of course, scaling the net like Spider-Man, I couldn’t have carried much anyway.

  When I reached the tanker’s deck, several things happened. First, the wind hit me so hard that I nearly pirouetted backward in a fall that would’ve been fatal. Second, a pair of strong arms grabbed me and pulled me on board, while others threw a blanket over my shoulders. Third, and most surprising, an elegantly dressed, Nordic-looking officer with a dazzling smile and pearly white teeth walked up to me and held out his hand.

  “You are the strangest fish we’ve ever caught, I can assure you,” he said in very proper English, with an accent I couldn’t place. “Allow me to welcome you aboard.”

  “What’s the name of this ship? Where are we?”

  The officer’s gesture swept the entire tanker as the curtain of rain soaked us. “Welcome to the Ithaca.”

  6

  Edna made landfall south of Morocco, then quickly weakened. Twenty-four hours later, her violent winds were gentle breezes. After dumping gallons and gallons of rain on the ocean, the clouds were wispy and no longer menacing. The August sun beat down on the African coast once again. By the time Edna passed through the Strait of Gibraltar and drifted onward to the Mediterranean Sea, she was just a harmless rainstorm. But we saw none of that.

  The moment I woke up, I instinctively felt around for my HK. When it wasn’t next to my bed where I always kept it, I panicked. Then the fog in my head cleared, and I remembered it was back on the sailboat—probably at the bottom of the ocean.

  I realized that I was in an unfamiliar cabin. Sunshine streamed in through an open porthole and glinted off the light-blue walls. I bolted upright and regretted it instantly, as every muscle in my arms and back exploded in pain. Even the muscles in my neck cramped. I was so stiff I struggled just to reach the bottle of water on the nightstand.

  I gulped down the entire bottle in seconds, belched, and then took a better look at the cabin. It was a simple room, about ten feet square, with a small closet next to the door. Another bed stretched along the wall across from mine. The warm sunlight coming through the porthole meant the storm must have passed. That answered my first question.

  Judging by what I could see of the sky, I must’ve slept for over twelve hours. That was no surprise, considering how exhausted we were when we boarded the tanker. I vaguely remembered two burly sailors in jumpsuits whisking me off to this room and Lucia helping me get undressed and into bed before she collapsed onto a mattress on the floor. That answered my other question. Lucia was still right there, sleeping peacefully; next to her was Lucullus, sprawled on a pillow, dead to the world.

  I didn’t have to wonder where Prit was. The Ukrainian was snoring loudly on the bed across the room. I had a hazy memory of him, exhausted like the rest of us, refusing to go to bed until he was sure Lucia and I were warm, dry, and in no danger. Our blond guardian angel.

  I winced as I stood up and stepped over Lucia, trying not to wake her. The throbbing pain was almost more than I could bear, but my curiosity prevailed. Hanging in the closet were three yellow jumpsuits like those the crew wore. I saw no sign of my clothes, so I put one of them on; it fit perfectly. I also found three pairs of boots in roughly our sizes. In clean clothes and dry boots, I tiptoed to the door. Lucullus opened his eyes and watched me for a moment. He must’ve decided that following me wasn’t worth interrupting his peaceful sleep, so he curled up again.

  When I reached the door, I cursed under my breath. We were probably locked in. If they were smart, they’d keep us under quarantine until they were sure we weren’t carriers of that demon virus. These people looked like they knew what they were doing, and they had to be prudent to have survived this long. But I gave the knob a turn anyway. The latch clicked softly and the door swung open.

  I stuck my head out and was surprised to see a well-lit, immaculate hallway stretching out before me. Pipes of all colors, shapes, and sizes snaked along the ceiling as far as I could see. Every few feet, there were doors like ours, presumably to other cabins. The only sound was a low hum coming from air-conditioning vents. Except for the reinforced metal doors and bare floors, it could’ve been a hotel.

  As I crept down the corridor, an uneasy feeling gripped me. Something wasn’t right. There were no locks or short-tempered guards brandishing rifles. This was too good to be true. I was on alert, braced for anything. Just then a door flew open and out came a waiter pushing a cart. I yelled so loud we both nearly had a heart attack.

  “Who are you? Where is everyone?” I stammered. My heart felt like it would jump out my mouth.

  “Signore, Signore, non passa niente. Sei sicuro.” A little, balding, middle-aged man with a big black mustache tried to catch his breath. “È dell’Ithaca aboard, ricorda?”

  He seemed to be speaking Italian, so I tried to dredge up what little Italian I learned during a wonderful, wine-soaked year at the University of Bologna. Either my accent was wrong or my vocabulary was rusty, but I couldn’t get the guy to understand me. I tried Spanish, Portuguese, and English, but none of those languages helped. I was about to try my broken German or my even worse Russian (thanks to Prit, I could curse and talk about sex and liquor in that language) when someone came up behind me.

  “I see you’ve met Enzo,” he said in English, with that same unfamiliar accent.

  I whipped around and came face to face with the same tall, blond officer who’d welcomed us during the hurricane. His spotless navy uniform fit him like a glove. I half expected him to invite me to a fancy dress ball.

  “My name is Strangärd, Gunnar Strangärd. I am the first mate on this ship. I hope you won’t mind my saying so, but it’s considerably larger than the one that brought you.”

  As we shook hands, I felt embarrassed at the contrast between the officer’s well-manicured hands and my own, which were covered with motor oil, fish, and God knows what else. My nails were broken and black.

  “Enzo is bringing breakfast to you and your friends.” He pointed to the waiter’s cart. “The doctor said that eighteen hours of sleep should be enough, so we thought we’d wake you. If you prefe
r to return to your cabin to have breakfast with your friends, that’s perfectly fine. However, the captain asked me to invite you to join us for breakfast in the officers’ quarters.” He was silent for a moment, taking in my shocked face. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” I stammered. After months of violence, danger, hunger, and hardship, I felt like I was dreaming. The more polite and educated these people were, the more astonished I was. “It’d be a pleasure, believe me.”

  After saying good-bye to Enzo and his cart loaded with wonderful-smelling food, I followed Officer Strangärd through the labyrinthine hallways.

  “Who are you? Where are you headed? Where’s this ship from?” The questions flew out my mouth as we climbed a flight of stairs and headed down another long corridor.

  “I’ll let the captain explain in depth, if you don’t mind.” Judging by the officer’s name and accent, he had to be Swedish or Norwegian. “You are on the supertanker Ithaca. Before the Apocalypse, it belonged to a Greek shipping company. Now,” he added with a bright smile, “it belongs to the AC.”

  I was about to ask what the hell the AC was when Officer Strangärd opened a door into a bright, airy room. Half a dozen officers sat at a long table, drinking coffee in silence. My gaze was instantly drawn to the view out the large window behind them. I finally got a good look at the entire length of the tanker. The giant was easily fifteen hundred feet long. Its bow shimmered in a wispy fog. A sailor leisurely pedaled a bicycle along the deck, dodging huge hoses.

  “Breathtaking, isn’t it?” The voice behind me belonged to a man of about fifty, average height, with a wind-beaten complexion. A trim white beard framed his round face and set off slightly puffy light-blue eyes. “I’m Captain Birley. I’m glad you decided to join us for breakfast.”

  I mumbled something unintelligible as I took a seat at the captain’s personal table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sailor enter the room. A large pistol hung at his waist and bounced against his thigh as he walked briskly in my direction. He was carrying a strip of paper and a vial of amber liquid.

  “There’s one small procedure we have to carry out first. I hope you don’t mind,” continued the captain, sitting down again. “Please spit on that strip of paper.”

  I froze, thinking I hadn’t heard him right. The sailor with the pistol set the strip of paper on the table in front of me. I didn’t want to offend my hosts. Plus, I felt sure that pistol wasn’t for show, and if I didn’t spit, the courtesy I’d enjoyed would evaporate. Feeling a bit ridiculous, I gently spit on the paper. The sailor poured a few drops from the vial onto the glob. Nothing happened that I could see, but I must’ve passed the test since the sailor nodded and everyone in the room visibly relaxed.

  “Mystery man, you’re clean. Now, I’d love to hear your story. Coffee or tea?”

  I pinched myself under the table. I had to be fucking dreaming.

  Over cup after cup of coffee, I filled the captain in on our travels while the other officers carried on lively conversations at the next table. I told him how I’d fled Spain through a sea of Undead, and about my little group’s helicopter flight to the Canaries, and the overcrowding and poor living conditions there, which led to our decision to head for Cape Verde. It was a watered-down version, only half-true, but I figured he didn’t need to know all the details. Plus, I was always guarded until I knew a person better.

  “Now, it’s my turn to ask.” I smiled, trying to sound more confident than I was. “Who do I have to thank for saving our lives?”

  “Our Lord Jesus Christ, of course,” Captain Birley answered, straight-faced, as we stood and walked over to the table of junior officers. “He set you on your path. Everything on earth is His doing. It’s a sign from God that our paths crossed in that terrible storm. His name be praised forever, amen.”

  A chorus of “amen” echoed around the table. Even Strangärd chimed in, serious and thoughtful. I was a little taken aback. I hadn’t expected such a show of religious fervor.

  “Um . . . Yes, yes, of course. And who did God place in my path? I mean, who are you?”

  “We’re part of the AC. We’re from the Christian Republic of Gulfport, Mississippi, crossing the Atlantic on a mission from God.”

  “The AC? The Republic of what? What mission?” To say I was amazed would be an understatement. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but I don’t understand any of this, sir.”

  “The AC is the Army of Christ,” replied a redheaded officer at one end of the table.

  Army of Christ? What the hell was that?

  “When Our Lord decided to punish the iniquities of the human race,” the officer continued, caught up by what he was saying, “all the sinners—those with impure hearts, hedonists, pagans—were punished by the Lord’s wrath. Only those of us who were pure in the Almighty’s eyes were saved. For a while, we wandered, lost and alone, surrounded by His divine punishment and the fruits of evil, but then we heard the call.” The sailor’s eyes glowed with a strange light. The kid believed every word he was saying.

  “The call?”

  “The call of Reverend Greene,” broke in another officer, a pimply-faced kid no more than eighteen. “He who brought us together in Gulfport and created the Refuge. There, we—the Lord’s Chosen—will witness the Second Coming of Christ.”

  A new chorus of “amen” and “hallelujah” rang out. I didn’t know if these guys were pulling my leg or if the Christian Republic of Gulfport was real. I decided to play along. I didn’t want to be saved from drowning only to be burned at the stake for making a joke about Jesus.

  “And is Reverend Greene here now?” I asked, casually.

  “Of course not!” Strangärd replied with a chuckle. “He’s in Gulfport, keeping things running smoothly. He’s a busy man. In addition to saving our souls, he also governs that town of ten thousand inhabitants. Not counting the helots, of course.”

  I nodded like I understood all the religious mumbo jumbo. I assumed that the “helots” were the Undead and survivors like me who wandered through the world outside of the Gulfport Refuge, but I couldn’t help asking. “So, am I a helot?”

  “No, of course not,” said the captain. “We’re quite sure of that. By the way, what religion do you and your friends practice?”

  The sudden shift in the conversation threw me for a loop. I was silent for a few seconds, thinking at full speed. Sister Cecilia would’ve been a big help right then.

  “Let’s see, Lucia and I are Christians. Catholics to be exact. Prit is Ukrainian, so he’s Russian Orthodox.” The truth is, Lucia and I had never discussed religion and Viktor Pritchenko had no faith in anything but himself, but this was not the time to expose our religious failings, so I tossed in an outrageous lie. “We pray together several times a day and give thanks to God for saving us from damnation.”

  “That’s good, very good.” Captain Birley slapped me on the back and everyone seemed satisfied. “Reverend Greene will rejoice to meet you when we reach Gulfport. You are the prodigal son, lost in the dark, far from the Light, amid the squalor and wickedness of the Undead. But the Lord has set you on the path to salvation. Today is a day for rejoicing!”

  Another round of “hallelujahs” exploded around the table. Many of the officers hugged me or shook my hand. I smiled and wondered what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into.

  “So,” I asked, “are we sailing to Gulfport?”

  “Not yet,” Birley said as he poured me a fresh cup of coffee. “As I said, we’re on a divine mission that the Lord revealed to the reverend.”

  “And what is that destination?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

  “A place you should be familiar with since it was once a Spanish colony—the city of Luba, in Equatorial Guinea, on the west coast of Africa,” Captain Birley said with a knowing smile. “It is God’s will.”

  7
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br />   About two thousand feet away, the port of Luba shimmered beneath the scorching African sun. After a slow, cautious approach, the Ithaca finally dropped anchor. Captain Birley and his crew had taken two full days to sail fifteen miles into port and then another day to ease the boat in those last few feet. They were serious professionals with a lot of experience. The Ithaca was too big to simply sail into port, especially since its pilot wasn’t familiar with the waters. Up on the bridge, they pored over digital navigational charts. They’d lucked out and the GPS was working, even though lots of satellites had dropped out of the sky. Still, this crew left nothing to chance.

  That same day, they lowered a small Zodiac equipped with a probe. The inflatable boat made its way three miles ahead of the tanker, probing every inch of the planned route. Officer Strangärd told me they were trying to avoid rock shelves and coral reefs, as well as sunken ships that might block our way. Given the tanker’s size, an impact could be catastrophic.

  “But why sail that little boat so far ahead? Why not use the ship’s sonar?” Pritchenko asked, leaning on the railing next to me.

  “Simple,” said the red-haired officer standing next to us, scanning the water through binoculars. I suspected he was also keeping us under surveillance. “The Ithaca has a carrying capacity of nearly a million tons. We’re sailing at a speed of twelve knots, generating an enormous amount of inertia. If the captain gave the order to reverse the engines, it would take about twenty minutes to come to a complete stop. In that time, we’d cover several miles. It’s not like stopping a car. Even after we cut the engines, this beast drifts for a while, almost as if she had a mind of her own.”

  Pritchenko grunted and peered through his own pair of binoculars. My pal was a suspicious grouch by nature. He didn’t like these people and didn’t really hide it. In spite of that, he took my advice and attended the three daily church services like a true believer. Prit prayed more on that ship than he had in his whole life. Lucia and I did the same. Everyone seemed pleased that we joined in their routine. Their polite but firm invitation made it clear they wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.