The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z)

by Manel Loureiro

  There it is. Just what we need.

  As I suspected, a wealthy town like Gulfport had a lot of sailboats anchored in a marina. On screen was a list of half a dozen boats classified as “auxiliary surveillance sailboats.” They were tied up in dock twelve, close to where the Ithaca had dropped anchor.

  One of them, the White Swan, was a yacht of over sixty feet. It was larger than any boat I’d ever sailed, but it was just what we needed to navigate the treacherous waters of the Caribbean. The sailboat’s record included a ten-digit code that matched its authorization documents. “Documents must accompany permit,” read the warning on screen.

  I cursed under my breath. Without those documents, the guards at the port wouldn’t let us near the boat. We always had the option of using force to board, but that would call attention to what we were doing. That option also assumed we could get our hands on weapons. I had to find those documents.

  Sweat poured down my back as I rummaged through the desk drawers. I glanced at the door from time to time, fearful that someone would come in and catch me red-handed. I’d have a helluva time explaining what I was doing there.

  After a while I sighed in frustration. I’d gone through all the cabinets and drawers. I’d found permits and the permission stamp, but not the boat’s authorization documents. I was afraid they were locked up somewhere, maybe even Greene’s office. But that made no sense. There were too many vehicles in Gulfport for the reverend to oversee all of them personally. Then I spotted the wall safe. Of course, you horse’s ass.

  It was a modern safe, not very big, but sturdy. I grabbed the handle of the safe and tried to turn it. Of course, it was locked.

  My stomach clenched in an icy knot. I knew how to pick simple locks, but this one was beyond my ability. Then a crazy thought occurred to me. I went back to the desk and rummaged through drawers and papers some more. When I lifted up the keyboard and turned it over, I stifled a shout of joy. Taped to the bottom was a slip of paper with a combination, a common trick of office workers with no time to memorize it.

  Tucking the keyboard under my arm, I went back to the safe and entered the combination. A clank sounded on the other side of the door as the electronic circuit unlocked the bars and the safe opened.

  Inside was a neat stack of carefully laminated papers. I quickly located the White Swan’s documents and put them in my pocket. Just as I was closing the safe, the doorknob turned and someone entered the office.

  I dashed into the small office bathroom just as a bald man in his fifties walked in. The guy talked nonstop on a cell phone while gripping a greasy hamburger in his other hand.

  “I know, I know. Listen, honey, when I get home, I’ll take you out to dinner. I promise. It’s just that—yes, I’m listening.”

  He chattered away as he sat down at one of the stations and looked for something on his desk. I realized that the keyboard from the neighboring desk was still under my arm. If the guy looked around, he’d wonder what had become of his coworker’s keyboard.

  Fortunately, the man was more engrossed in what the person on the other end of the line was saying than in his surroundings. With the door open a crack, I watched for a chance to get the hell out of there. The air in the bathroom was thick with dust from the files stored there. I struggled to contain a sneeze. Just when I thought I’d have to force my way out of there and take down that guy before anyone else came in (no small feat, since he was a mountain of flesh and fat), he said good-bye, blew the other person a kiss, picked up his hamburger and a folder, and left the room.

  Before I ventured out of the bathroom, I waited a few seconds for my racing heart to slow down and to be sure he wouldn’t come back for something he’d forgotten. I put the keyboard back in its place, took one last look around, checked that the coast was clear, and headed out.

  My legs were trembling as I walked down the hall. The first part was done. Now I just had to get weapons and supplies.

  I came around a corner and ran right into Mrs. Compton. The reverend’s rotund secretary looked at me suspiciously.

  “Oh, señor, I just spoke with Sue Anne. She said you weren’t feeling well and you’re going to home. You don’t look so good.”

  I smiled faintly. My face was covered in sweat, and I guessed that dust from the bathroom had stuck to my skin, giving me an eerie gray appearance.

  “Be sure to stop by the hospital on your way home. You might be coming down with the flu.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” I babbled. “It’ll run its course. Plus the hospital’s on the other side of town. I’d waste more time driving there and waiting—”

  “I insist you see a doctor,” interrupted Mrs. Compton. Suddenly the secretary’s face brightened. “Wait a minute! You don’t have to go to the hospital.”

  “Oh? Why not?” I mumbled hopefully. Time was running out and I had to get rid of that annoying woman, fast, without raising any suspicions.

  “I’ve got a great idea,” Mrs. Compton said as she grabbed my arm and practically dragged me down the hall. “Dr. Ballarini’s team of physicians is in the health wing. He’s a papist Italian, but he’s a nice person and a great doctor. I’m sure he’s not too busy to check you over. The reverend holds him in high esteem.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Dr. Ballarini and his staff are from the CDC in Atlanta. They arrived two weeks after the Wall went up around Gulfport, praise the Lord. Fortunately one of our patrols found them. Satan’s creatures, those Undead, would’ve reduced them to pieces of meat in a few days. Scientists are always thinking about their projects, not about survival.” The secretary frowned. “I’m sure they don’t pray enough.”

  “Scientists?” The missing piece of the puzzle was falling into place. “Why’re they so important?”

  Mrs. Compton looked at me wide-eyed. “You don’t know? Cladoxpan is their main project. Dr. Ballarini and his team developed it.”

  I was speechless. Cladoxpan, the mysterious drug that slowed TSJ down. I’d been racking my brain, trying to figure out how a fanatical preacher had gotten ahold of such a drug. Now I understood. Before the Apocalypse, the CDC in Atlanta was the most important center for viral research in the world. A lab somewhere in the former Soviet Union was the only other place thought to have facilities and experts to equal the CDC. If anyone could find a cure for TSJ, it was the CDC.

  But what were the odds that a team from the CDC would end up in Gulfport? That Greene was one lucky son of a bitch. He’d won the world’s biggest lottery.

  As all that ran through my mind, we came to a door blocked by two Green Guards slumped behind a desk. One of them looked bored as he leafed through an old copy of Playboy; the other one was cleaning his nails with a toothpick. I suspected this was one of the worst duties an Aryan could be assigned. Even so, they were armed with M16s and had big pistols hanging from their belts.

  “Mrs. Compton, good morning, ma’am.” The Aryan tossed the magazine under the desk so fast it seemed to vanish into thin air. The other guy threw the toothpick on the floor and jumped to his feet.

  “Good morning, boys. How are you?” Compton said, giving them the once-over, her hands on her hips. “You haven’t gotten in any trouble lately, have you?”

  “No, Mrs. Compton,” they answered in unison. It was comical to see those tattooed brutes act like scolded children in front of short, stout Susan Compton.

  “Oh, no?” she answered, in a withering tone. “Then why has Mr. Grapes stuck you with this post? I know it’s not because of your good looks.”

  The Aryans muttered an answer and hung their heads. I realized they were more afraid of what Mrs. Compton might tell Reverend Greene or Malachi Grapes than they were of her.

  “I need to see Dr. Ballarini and his staff. Open the door, please.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Compton. We can let you pass, but not this man. He isn’t au
thorized.” The guard pointed at me, as if he needed to clarify who he meant.

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Compton waved her hand as if she were shooing away a fly. “This gentleman works at the Office of Hispanic Helots. And he’s my niece Sue Anne’s boss. I’ll vouch for him.”

  The Aryans looked at her for a few seconds. Finally, the guy with the clean nails, who seemed to be in charge, shrugged.

  “Alright. If you say so.” He pulled out a heavy ring of keys and opened the three locks on the door. “But you both have to sign the register.”

  I scrawled my signature below Greene’s secretary’s and we walked through the door. What the hell I was going to find in there?

  27

  As we walked down the hall, the first thing I noticed was a sweet, acidic smell. Not unpleasant. Just the opposite. It also smelled vaguely familiar.

  Radiating authority, Mrs. Compton led me down several empty corridors. “We’re now in an annex of city hall. This used to be a bank. Since there’s no banking system or money anymore, there was no need for it. It’s one of the safest buildings in Gulfport.”

  I nodded politely, taking everything in. I cast a worried glance at my watch. Time was running out and I hadn’t gotten weapons or supplies. If I knew my friend, he’d already snuck into the ghetto, tracked down Lucia, and brought her back. Here I was, walking alongside a talkative old woman to see a doctor I didn’t need.

  Mrs. Compton stopped and turned, giving me a very serious look. “What we’re doing is highly irregular. Dr. Ballarini’s team doesn’t see any patients except the reverend. I’m only doing this because I want us to have a good working relationship. On top of that, I hope you treat my niece well. I know the girl doesn’t come off as terribly bright, but she is hardworking and comes from a good family. She’ll be a great secretary if you give her a chance.”

  I put a hand over my heart and told a monstrous lie in my best lawyer voice. “I give you my word that I’ll be the most caring and honest boss Sue Anne could hope for.”

  “I knew we’d understand each other.” The woman gave a satisfied grunt and opened the door to what was once a boardroom.

  The managers of the bank would’ve been very surprised to see what had become of their beautiful room. The huge walnut conference table had been shoved against a wall; lined up along it were three large electron microscopes, a centrifuge, an autoclave, and other equipment I couldn’t identify. Through the door at the far end, I spotted another room just like this one. Half a dozen grave men and women in white lab coats moved among the instruments, engrossed in their work.

  “Signore Ballarini.” Mrs. Compton walked over to a tall man who was peering into a microscope. “I need your assistance.”

  Dr. Ballarini turned toward us. He was a handsome man, about fifty, with expressive eyes. White hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee framed his face. He blinked a few times, clearly annoyed by the interruption, and set down a notebook in which he’d scribbled a jumble of numbers and chemical signs.

  “What I can do for you, Mrs. Compton?” he replied politely, his very proper English filled with the music of Italian.

  “Can you spare five minutes to give this gentleman a checkup? I think he’s coming down with the flu.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” said the doctor. He studied me for a moment with a blank expression on his face. “We had better go to—”

  He was interrupted by wailing sirens. I felt the blood drain from my face. I was terrified that someone had discovered I’d stolen the sailboat’s documents. I was sure that, at any moment, Green Guards would race in and arrest me. Instead, Mrs. Compton’s cell phone rang. The secretary answered it, listened for a few seconds, and replied tersely, “I’m on my way.”

  “What is it?” I managed to ask, feigning calm.

  “A riot in Bluefont. The guards heard a gunshot even though firearms are strictly prohibited there. I have to go.” She wavered for a moment. She knew she shouldn’t leave me there alone, but Greene had called and she had to go.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll leave as soon as my checkup is over. I can find my way out.”

  “Great, great! Go home and get some rest. See you back at the office tomorrow.” Mrs. Compton waved and scurried out as fast as her little legs could carry her. “Take care of my Sue Anne!”

  Once she’d disappeared through the door, I turned to Dr. Ballarini. The doctor looked me straight in the eye. “You’re not sick. At least not with the flu.”

  “No,” I confessed.

  “Do you want to tell me what you are doing here? I have a lot of work, you know.”

  I could’ve apologized for the interruption and left immediately. I could’ve walked back down the hall past the guard post and blended into the crowd. If I had, I might’ve had time to get guns and provisions. We might’ve been spared all the horrors that came later. But Dr. Ballarini had developed the only treatment for the virus that had destroyed humanity. I needed to know more and to get my hands on some of that liquid. One bottle could be worth more to us than all the weapons and food we could carry.

  “I’m the head of the Office of Hispanic Helots. Are you familiar with it?” I was making things up as I went along. “We need to know what the . . . uh . . . acceptance rate of Cladoxpan is among the patients. The reverend asked me to do this discreetly, thus the flu excuse. No one can know I’m here.”

  “Helots? What are you talking about?” Dr. Ballarini looked confused.

  The good doctor didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. How much did the creator of Cladoxpan know about life outside his lab?

  “Dr. Ballarini, do you know how Cladoxpan is used?”

  “Of course I do.” His expression said, Don’t yank my chain. “Strain 15b, or Cladoxpan, as it is commonly called, is a palliative retardant of the TSJ virus. It is a mixture of a viral suppressor and an immunoenhancer through a variation of enzymes that—”

  “I know what it is, Doctor,” I said, holding up my hands. But do you know who they’re giving it to?”

  “The newly infected, of course. It has absolutely no beneficial effect on other subjects. It is even toxic. Where are you going with this?”

  I was about to explain the genocidal cesspool Gulfport had become, but I didn’t have time. Any moment someone might read the register and discover I was there. Without Greene’s secretary, I’d have a hard time sneaking out. That Italian doctor and his team would have to learn the truth on their own, the way I did.

  “Never mind, Doctor. To carry out my research, I need you to provide me with a few gallons of Cladoxpan. To assess its effectiveness.”

  “This is outrageous!” Dr. Ballarini exploded. “I will not allow another laboratory to conduct a study when we have not fully developed the strain! I have told Greene that several times! Not a single fungus cultivar leaves here without our supervision!”

  Fungus? Cultivar? What the hell was he talking about?

  “Why don’t you explain it to me, Dr. Ballarini?” I used my best lawyer voice and pretended to take notes. As long as Dr. Ballarini thought I was there on official business, everything was OK.

  “The 15b strain is the first strain we were investigating in Atlanta.” Glad to have a new audience, the doctor sat down and plunged into a story he was clearly proud of.

  “When the pandemic broke out, I was in Atlanta, on a research exchange from the University of Bologna, to study a mutation of the Asian flu virus. They ordered all personnel in the laboratories, residents and guests alike, to research TSJ full time. No one refused, of course. It was a new disease and, therefore, intriguing. The ramifications were huge.”

  His academic viewpoint didn’t surprise me. A new virus could lead to an award, an endowed chair, and prestigious publications. But TSJ put an end to all that in its first week.

  “At first I could not believe what I saw. It was so . . . perfect.” D
r. Ballarini’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “I do not know who created it. I do not think we will ever know. The TSJ virus is a marvel. It combines the best of Ebola, the flu virus, and strains of three other unrelated viruses. Not only did they not reject each other, they fit together with unprecedented precision. È un lavoro dell’arte magnifica. Understand?”

  “I understand, but what about Cladoxpan?” I said impatiently.

  “All in good time, all in good time.” Dr. Ballarini’s mind was somewhere else. “When they gave us the first samples, we did not know what their effect was. Only when they brought in infected soldiers from Ramstein, Germany, did we understand that it was bigger than we had ever dreamed.”

  “So much bigger,” I said under my breath.

  “You do not understand!” The doctor’s voice rose two octaves. “In that laboratory were the sixty top virologists in the world! For nearly a month, we were shooting in the dark. TSJ was so perfect that nothing we tried worked. Nothing! It was like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle, blindfolded, without all the pieces. It was so frustrating.” Dr. Ballarini pounded on the table.

  “Fine, but in the end, the Cladoxpan . . .”

  “It pains me to say we discovered Cladoxpan almost by accident.” The doctor pushed his glasses up. “Do you know what Cladosporium mold is?”

  “Honestly, Doctor, I have no idea.”

  “It is the most common fungus you can imagine. Laboratories are routinely contaminated by Cladosporium. That was precisely what happened. Some muscle tissue in a petri dish was contaminated with the fungus and nobody noticed. During a test of some potential vaccines, we inoculated TSJ in one hundred fifty petri dishes, but in one petri dish, the virus did not multiply. Guess which one it was?”

  “The one with the fungus?” I said, sure I already knew the answer.

  “Indeed. For some reason, Cladosporium combined with strain 7n of the vaccine, slowed TSJ infection almost to a halt . . . but didn’t eliminate it. We were working on that when the Atlanta Safe Zone collapsed and they evacuated the CDC.”