The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z)

by Manel Loureiro

  She retraced her steps and ruled out the bridge. The Green Guards in the tower would never let her cross. She looked over at the ghetto. In contrast to Gulfport’s brightly lit streets, it was deep in shadows. Just a few dim lights flickered in the distance.

  Just when she was about to give up, she spotted a pretty, petite brunette Mexican woman in her late twenties, wearing an army uniform two sizes too big for her. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail that cascaded down her back. She was sitting under a metal awning pulling blood-caked clothes out of a bag, and then poking them with a stick into a kettle of boiling water that hung over a campfire.

  “Hello!” cried Lucia.

  The young woman was so absorbed in her work she didn’t hear Lucia. When she called out again, the woman jumped up and looked around in alarm, holding the stick like a club.

  “Over here! On the other bank!” Lucia cried, waving her arms.

  When the woman saw her, she looked relieved. She walked to the edge of the channel, which was cordoned off with barbed wire on her side.

  “Whaddaya want?” she yelled over the roaring water. “You selling or buying?

  “Neither. I want to come over to that side of the river. Where can I cross?”

  At first the woman was shocked by what Lucia said. Then she let out a bitter laugh. “You crazy? Whaddaya want to do that for?”

  “I need to talk to someone in Bluefont.”

  “Talk to your reverend or those Nazi assholes on the bridge. I can’t help you.” She turned and went back into the shed.

  “Don’t go, please! ¿Cómo te llamas?” Lucia blurted out.

  The woman turned, surprised. “Alejandra, but call me Ale. You speak Spanish!”

  “I’m from Spain. Just got here.”

  “You’re a long way from home, gachupina,” she said, using the unflattering term Mexicans called anyone from Spain. “What the fuck do you want to come over here for? You’re better off where you are, believe me.”

  “I have to talk to a man named Carlos Mendoza. You know him?”

  “What do you want with Gato Mendoza?”

  “I met him on the Ithaca.”

  Alejandra stared into the darkness for a few seconds. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?” she demanded, looking around for Green Guards.

  Lucia thought fast. She remembered her conversation with Mendoza on board the oil tanker. “He said if I ever needed him, to say I was one of the Just.”

  The woman’s expression changed. “That sounds like Gato,” she said, shaking her head. “OK. Follow me.”

  The Mexican woman and Lucia walked along opposite banks. Alejandra stopped next to the twisted remains of a bicycle, slowly rusting against the fence.

  “Cross here,” she said.

  Lucia looked around. She’d passed by that spot twice but hadn’t seen a way to cross. The deserted rocky bank sloped gently down to the swirling water.

  “What do I do?” she asked, confused.

  “Look closely and just walk,” Alejandra replied, patiently.

  Lucia walked to the edge of the channel where the water lapped at the toe of her shoes. She spotted several boards just below the surface.

  “It’s called a Vietnamese bridge.” Alejandra sat on the embankment and pointed. “It’s a normal bridge, just two feet below the surface of the water. Better take off your shoes.”

  Lucia took off her shoes and waded into the water. It was cold and the current was very strong, but walking over the submerged bridge was surprisingly easy. She realized she could never have swum across.

  Suddenly a branch racing along in the current struck Lucia’s ankle. She stumbled and stretched her arms, trying to keep her balance, but with no success. With a loud splash, she fell into the water headfirst.

  The current drove her against the bridge and one of the pilings dug into her ribs. Lucia gasped and choked as she swallowed a lot of water. In the darkness, she lost her sense of direction; for a few long seconds, she didn’t know where the surface was. She panicked. I don’t want to drown in a dirty river in the middle of the night.

  She kicked her way to the surface, where she gasped for breath and coughed up dirty water. She grabbed on to the bridge, wiped the wet hair out of her face, and peered over at the shore. The Mexican woman had disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed her up.

  Before she could wonder where the other woman had gone, she heard the roar of an engine approaching along the bank behind her. Terrified, she saw a police car patrolling the embankment, sweeping its spotlight along the fence and both shores, about two hundred feet away. She didn’t have time to climb back on the bridge, much less make it to the other bank.

  Lucia only had one choice. She took several deep breaths; when the light was just a few feet away, she plunged back under the water. The first ten seconds passed slowly. The water was so cold she could feel her veins contracting. All sorts of debris hit her as it was swept along. She nearly panicked when something slimy grazed her face. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she resurfaced, trying not to make any noise.

  The patrol car was slowly moving downstream. She’d narrowly escaped. Physically and emotionally drained, she tried to climb back onto the bridge. Her wet clothes felt like they weighed a ton. It took her three tries to kneel back up on the submerged surface.

  “Gachupina! Get a move on! They’ll be back in a couple minutes!” Alejandra had materialized out of the shadows and beckoned her.

  Placing her feet carefully, Lucia made it the rest of the way. On the other side, she climbed the embankment to the fence. Alejandra pulled back a cleverly hidden gap in the barbed wire, big enough for Lucia to drag herself through. Then she released the wire and resealed the gap.

  The petite Mexican woman looked Lucia up and down, her hands on her waist. Despite her short stature, determination and character oozed out of every pore.

  “Welcome to hell, gachupina. I don’t know what the devil brings you to this side, but I hope it’s worth it. I don’t think you’ll ever cross back over that river again.”

  23

  BETHSAIDA, MISSISSIPPI

  FIVE MONTHS EARLIER

  “There’s one over there! Shoot him! Shoot him, you idiot!”

  Carlos Mendoza whipped around to see where Chino Cevallos was pointing. An Undead, about forty, wearing ragged jeans and a ripped T-shirt, was staggering down the sidewalk across the street. The guy had a severe bite wound at the base of his neck, but he was covered with so much furry orange fungus you couldn’t see his much of his skin. The fungi had branched off and climbed up the guy’s neck and into his nose. The image was repulsive and hypnotic at the same time. Mendoza and his buddy were seeing more and more fungus-covered Undead, but they didn’t know why.

  Carlos raised his Mossberg rifle. As always, he licked his thumb, wiped it across the sight, and took aim. When the Undead filled the sight, he pulled the trigger. An instant later, the guy’s head sprayed like a fountain and he collapsed to the ground.

  “That’s fifteen,” murmured Chino Cevallos.

  For two hours they’d wandered around that backwater town looking for supplies, but it had already been ransacked by other looters. All they’d found were some cans of soup past their expiration date. They decided to eat the soup anyway, despite the risk of botulism. They’d seen several men die from eating bad food, but hunger got the better of them. They hadn’t eaten for six days and were getting weaker and weaker.

  Two cans of soup, Mendoza thought, and only half of our ammo. A few more days like this and we’ll be as good as dead.

  Then the Undead cornered them in the grocery store where they’d holed up. Up until the last ten minutes, they’d held their own. Now their luck was running out.

  He and Fernando “Chino” Cevallos had spent over a year together. They weren’t sure when they’d crossed the US border, but the
y were sure this was the farthest they’d ventured into gringo territory. Borders meant nothing when food was so scarce.

  When the pandemic broke out, Carlos Mendoza joined one of the armed groups that went “güero hunting” along the US-Mexico border. For three weeks, volunteers patrolled the border, intercepting Americans who were fleeing south, hoping to evade the TSJ virus. Shoot first and ask questions later was the motto.

  But the TSJ virus prevailed. Mexico, like the rest of the world, went to hell a few weeks later. Mendoza, Chino Cevallos, and a hundred other armed men found themselves cut off from their command center. Half the group deserted and rushed home to protect their families, even though deep down they knew it was too late. Others thought it was suicide to leave. Some, like Carlos Mendoza, had no place else to go.

  For the next several months, the fifty güero hunters traveled along the border, fighting to survive. Hordes of Undead hounded them at every turn. They ran low on food and ammunition, and their vehicles broke down. Now there were just the two of them left.

  “This soup isn’t so bad,” Chino said, taking a big gulp. “I think I’ll—What the fuck!”

  Mendoza jumped back as the window above his head exploded, raining down glass and wood chips. A huge man, covered with blood clots, was trying to get through the hole. At the same time, two women and a girl appeared at the back door. Footfalls on the front porch alerted them that at least one Undead was coming in that way too.

  We’re trapped. Mendoza cursed himself for being so careless. They’d let their guard down as they warmed up that damn soup. Now Undead surrounded the store.

  Chino drew his gun and blew away the man in the window with the cold eye of a professional killer; before the Apocalypse, he’d been a hit man for the Tijuana Cartel. Then he turned to face the women staggering around in the middle of the room. When one of them stepped into their campfire, flames engulfed her fungus-covered leg, but she didn’t seem to notice. Chino fired off three rounds before his Beretta jammed.

  “¡Chinga tu madre!” he yelled as he cocked the hammer. Those were his last words.

  A couple of Undead reached through the shattered window and grabbed Chino from behind. Before Mendoza could react, his compañero was dragged halfway through the window. There was a muffled scream, then a thud like a wet rag hitting the floor. Chino’s legs stopped moving as a dark spot spread across his crotch.

  Mendoza didn’t have time to dwell on the gunman’s fate; he had problems of his own. He fired his last two rounds at an Undead who’d stuck his head through the window. Meanwhile, that female Undead was practically on top of him, her leg ablaze.

  Mendoza swung his rifle like a club and split the woman’s head open. He squeezed his eyes shut a second before impact to keep her brains and blood from getting in his eyes. One of his buddies got infected that way, and they’d had to finish him off, on the spot, despite his pleas.

  A jet of cold, sticky blood splashed on his face; a couple of clots slid down his nose. Carlos closed his mouth and exhaled, trying to keep his nose clear. A cold panic washed over him and his balls shrank to the size of marbles. He didn’t want to die in the middle of that carnival of death in some no-name town.

  Son of a bitch, Carlitos, you’re done for if that rotten blood comes in contact with your eyes or nose. Keep your eyes closed tight till you wash off all that infected shit. You’re fighting those fucking monsters blind. You can’t even breathe. Could you be any more fucked, compadre?

  Carlos threw himself on the ground and slithered blindly over Undead legs. Clumsy hands grabbed at his back, trying to get ahold of his clothes. Mendoza shook them off like a rabid dog. His hands swept the floor, feeling for the canteen he’d left with his backpack.

  Gotta wash my face, gotta wash my face, gotta—FUCK!

  Carlos screamed as he set his hand on a hot ember from the fire that had spread across the floor. Then his fingers found the soup. He didn’t think twice; he threw it on his face.

  The thick soup seared his skin, but it cut through the muck that had spewed out of the woman’s brain. Mendoza howled in pain as he furiously rubbed off every bit of gray matter. He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. Burning Woman was now a pyre; the fire had spread across half the room. Embers floated onto a stack of old newspapers that went up like kindling. Smoke filled the room as flames licked the ceiling.

  This place is going to burn to the ground.

  His charred face throbbed. Out of his mind with pain, he retreated to the door. In the smoke, Mendoza ran into another monster. He shoved the thing and it stumbled backward with a grunt. The flickering fire lit up the door.

  I’m gonna make it.

  That hope vanished in a second. If he’d started out the door an instant later, the Undead standing there (a charming old guy named Charles Richmond, beloved by the children in town, a Korean War veteran and Bronze Star recipient) would’ve been outside, running from the flames. But when Carlos Mendoza poked his head out of the building, he was still within arms’ reach of the former Mr. Richmond, who bit down hard on Mendoza’s shoulder with his few remaining teeth.

  Carlos shouted in pain, fear, and anger. He grabbed the old codger by the shoulders, lifted him up, and heaved him into the burning store with ease. Carlos was tall, muscular, and pumped full of adrenalin; even when Mr. Richmond was still human, he weighed barely a hundred pounds.

  The Mexican examined his wound. It was small but deep. One of Mr. Richmond’s rotten teeth was lodged in Mendoza’s skin. He pulled it out and threw it on the ground.

  I’m done for. This is the end.

  Carlos Mendoza collapsed on the dusty street. He’d outlived his buddies, but now he was exhausted—and doomed. He hoped they’d finish him off ASAP. Better that than changing into one of them.

  The burning building crackled as flames devoured it. Small explosions punctuated Carlos’s dream as he lost consciousness. They sounded like gunshots.

  Carlos Mendoza tried to sit up, but he was too weak. A shadow fell across his face. An Undead, backlit by the fire, studied him, about to pounce.

  Alright. This is the end.

  But the Undead leaned over, felt his body all over, and clucked his tongue. To Mendoza’s surprise, the Undead shouted, “We got a live one over here!”

  “Damn! He ran out of that burning store!” said another voice.

  The first guy brought a canteen filled with a thick liquid to Mendoza’s mouth. “Yeah, and the street’s full of Undead he blew away. This bastard put up a helluva fight.”

  The other guy laughed. “If he can survive all that, he’s got more lives than a cat.”

  24

  Mendoza bolted upright in his rickety cot, drenched in sweat. For a second, as the cobwebs of sleep cleared, he didn’t know where he was. I was dreaming about that place again. He got to his feet and made his way to a washbasin, careful not to step on anyone. He plunged his head into the water, then straightened up, tossing his hair back.

  Night after night, he dreamed about the helot patrol that had found him in agony and brought him to Bluefont. The memory of that night never left him. It was his private monster, his shadow of sin. It’s just a dream, but the memory’ll be with me as long as I live. Got to get used to it.

  Carlos Mendoza’s hatred for Gulfport and everything it represented burned in him like a flame. That anger kept him alive. He’d been addicted to Cladoxpan since the day that old Undead man bit him. He wasn’t alone. Almost everyone in Bluefont needed that strange drink to survive. Carlos couldn’t live without it, but he hated living like a slave almost as much as he hated the raids on the ghetto.

  He put on a flak jacket, laced up his boots, and braided his long wet hair. He eased out of the room he shared with seven other people, all of them asleep on mattresses on the floor. As a group leader, he was entitled to the only real bed in the room, but that night he’d given it to a Bra
zilian guy and his pregnant wife. He didn’t even know their names. How the hell did those two end up so far from home? Any Brazilian beach, even one packed with Undead, had to be better than this godforsaken hole.

  He ran down the stairs and across the street. The rain was coming down hard, washing over the pavement. Bluefont had once been a high-end neighborhood, but no longer. The huge potholes became small lakes when it rained. Mendoza carefully sidestepped them to get to the Red Rooster, one of the ghetto’s secret bars.

  Inside, the smell of damp clothes, sweat, tobacco, and whiskey assaulted him like a slap in the face. Although the ghetto lacked almost everything else, alcohol and tobacco circulated freely. After the supply runs they made for Gulfport, several boxes regularly got “lost” before they reached the warehouse. Since Reverend Greene didn’t look kindly on “the smoke of Satan and the blood of Beelzebub,” Bluefont served as a black market for buyers on the other side of the fence.

  “Hello, Gato,” the waitress greeted him affectionately. She was a stocky woman with big breasts that stretched the neckline of her dress to the limit. “Rough night, huh?”

  “Tell me about it, Morena,” Mendoza replied as he brushed the rain off his clothes. Several customers greeted him and made a place at the bar. “Give me a bottle of tequila and something to eat, honey.”

  The woman set out a bottle of Jose Cuervo and a plate of beans that had seen better days.

  “Come on. Is that the best you can do?”

  “That’s all there is, Carlitos,” said the woman, patting his hand. “I got all the liquor, women, and tobacco you could want, but that’s it for food.”

  The Mexican shrugged and knocked back his first shot of tequila. Fifteen minutes later, with the beans in his stomach and a quarter bottle of tequila warming his body, he began to feel good for the first time that night.

  But then his life got really complicated.

  The bar door swung open and the wind and rain blew in, making the oil lamps flicker. People grumbled or shouted complaints as two figures hesitated in the doorway. The shorter of the pair finally stepped inside, pulling the other person along.