The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z)

by Manel Loureiro

  “That asshole?” Lucia’s face twisted in disbelief. “No way! He almost killed us.”

  “Don’t give me any shit, girlfriend. If anyone can help us, it’s Mendoza.” Alejandra swung her AK-47 across her back. The weapon dwarfed her and drew spiteful looks from the people who crossed their path. “Grab your friend’s other arm and let’s go.”

  Mendoza was still sitting in the bar, calmly finishing the bottle of tequila, as if all the excitement had nothing to do with him. But, deep down, he was seething. That raid could derail his plans. Then again, if he played his cards right, it could advance his cause.

  “Gato, we need a place to hide,” Alejandra pleaded. “Please.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you do, Ale. This is all your fault.”

  The little Mexican woman flushed to the roots of her hair, but fought to control her anger. “It’s as much your fault as it is mine. You provoked the fight and stripped this girl nearly naked. So, come on, help us.”

  Mendoza took a drag on his cigarette, his expression unreadable. Then he threw the butt on the ground, sighed, and stood up.

  “Follow me. I don’t know why the hell I’m doing this. I hope I don’t regret it.”

  Mendoza strode out the door, not helping the women drag the half-conscious Pritchenko. They finally came to what had once been a beautiful Tudor-style home, but neglect and overcrowding had taken a toll. All the windows were broken. The once-manicured lawn was planted with spindly tomatoes.

  The Mexican headed into the house and down some stairs to a damp basement that smelled like oil and mold. From a corner, the skeleton of a rat flashed a sardonic grin.

  Mendoza slid his hand along the brick wall. With a satisfied grunt, he pulled a hidden lever and stepped back. A section of the wall moved a few inches, revealing a hidden room. He waved them in. Once inside, Lucia gasped. A huge bed took up one side of the room; hanging over it was a large mirror. Leather handcuffs and harnesses lined the walls. Vibrators, whips, and sex toys lay next to the bed.

  “The previous owner hid his dirty little secret in here,” Mendoza chuckled. “He didn’t want his neighbors to find out what he was into. If we had time, I’d show you some very interesting videos he made. But you’d have to like really dirty sex.”

  “Some other time,” Alejandra growled, exhausted from carrying Prit. “Help me get him on the bed.”

  They settled the Ukrainian on the stained satin sheets and then sat on the floor to wait.

  Nothing happened right away. They heard a Humvee roar through the streets and a garbled voice shouting something through a bullhorn. Then everything went quiet again. The plop-plop of a leaky faucet was getting on Lucia’s already frayed nerves.

  Several shots rang out close by. Silence again. Then a Humvee raced by.

  “They’re on this street,” Mendoza whispered. He turned off the light and they sat in total darkness. “Now shut up, everyone. One word and we’re dead.”

  They heard wood splintering on the floor above them, as if someone had flung furniture onto the floor. Then punching, yelling, and several shots. A woman screamed, but her cry was abruptly suffocated.

  Their shelter was filled with a deathly silence and the sharp smell of sweat and fear. Even Mendoza abandoned his macho pose and sat in silence, his lips pursed, hands clasped in prayer.

  One of the basement steps creaked, then the next. Someone was coming down the stairs, whistling “Hey Jude” off-key, under his breath. He paused in the middle of a verse, dragged furniture around, then started whistling again. It made their hair stand on end.

  Lucia brushed sweat-soaked hair off Prit’s face. The Ukrainian made a superhuman effort to control his breathing. He looked pretty bad but gave her a weak thumbs-up.

  Starting at the other end of the room, the guy pounded the walls with something hard, listening for the hollow sound of a hidden room. Mendoza grabbed Alejandra’s AK-47 with a grim look on his face. No was one going to take him—or anyone else in that hideout—alive.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  The pounding was getting closer. Lucia bit her hand to keep from screaming.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  The guy stopped whistling. He focused all his attention on the sound.

  Thump, thump, thump!

  Just then someone upstairs shouted. The pounding stopped and the guy stomped up the stairs. An engine started up and roared away.

  They waited in silence in the dark for hours.

  Alejandra whispered, “Sometimes Green Guards pretend they’re leaving. They wait for helots to come out of their shelters, then shoot them down like dogs.”

  Lucia didn’t hear a word the girl said. She was exhausted, emotionally drained, and about to crack.

  The hours passed in a blur. Alejandra pulled out a bottle of water and a sandwich, but no one felt like eating or drinking. Lucia laid her head on Prit’s legs and let her mind wander to someplace nicer than that grimy basement.

  Six hours later, Mendoza decided it was safe to leave their hideout. He eased the door open and silently peered out. After all that time, it was unlikely Greene’s men were still upstairs. But if they were, he didn’t want to be picked off like rabbits poking their heads out of their den. He waved the others out once he was sure the coast was clear.

  The house looked like a hurricane had hit it. Broken furniture, smashed dishes, and scraps of clothing blanketed the floor. Green Guards had dumped all the drawers out the window, sending their contents flying down the street. They’d torn away floorboards and ceiling tiles looking for hiding places. The worst part was the blood.

  “What’ll happen to all those people?” Pritchenko asked between bloody coughs.

  “They’ll put them on the train,” Mendoza muttered. “Those assholes’ve gone too far. It’s time for the Wrath of the Just.”

  30

  At first I felt hot, very hot. Two Green Guards had dragged me out of Greene’s office and thrown me in a cell in the basement of the Gulfport police station. The cells lined a narrow hallway and were painted puke green. Each had a toilet bolted down in the middle. I was the only occupant. Outside, an angry mob had gathered.

  I was locked in a cell way in the back. The guards gave me a couple of kicks, and then, in one last evil act, they set a jug of water and a piece of moldy bread outside my cell, just out of reach.

  “Thirsty, motherfucker? You’ll be thirstier in hell,” one of them taunted me.

  “You shouldn’t’ve bumped off old lady Compton,” muttered the other guard. “She was a bitchy old bag, but she was the old man’s secretary.” He shook his head, as if he knew something I didn’t. “Those people out there are gonna burn you alive.”

  The first guard spat green phlegm on the bread. “There’s a little more to eat.” The guy smiled, but had a pitying look in his eyes. “Don’t turn your nose up at that. It’s the best you’ll get. They’re sending you to the Wasteland with all those fucking helots. Nothing but scorpions and Undead out there. I’d hate to be in your shoes, asshole.”

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself,” I muttered, not looking up. It wasn’t a threat. I just wanted the two idiots to go away and leave me alone.

  The Aryan looked at me for a moment, trying to decide if that was an insult, kicked the bread out of reach, and headed down the hall with his buddy, leaving me alone.

  How did everything go to hell so fast? That morning, I’d had a boat, a plan, and I was about to get my hands on a drug worth its weight in gold. Twelve hours later, I was rotting in jail, about to be put to death.

  So much for your fucking plan, wise guy. What’s next?

  I was dripping with sweat. It must’ve been ninety degrees in there. I felt dangerously dehydrated. I looped my shirt over the water jug and tried to drag it, but I only managed to knock it over. You idiot! I watched helplessly as the last drop of water
disappeared down a drain in the center of the aisle.

  I dropped to my knees and leaned against the bars. My mouth felt like it was full of straw. I was so thirsty I couldn’t think straight. After half an hour, I realized there was water in the toilet bowl. It tasted salty and was a weird color. I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was drinking out of a toilet, but at least it was liquid.

  I took small sips to make the water last longer. The small amount didn’t quench my thirst, but it revived me a little. Then I started thinking about how to get out of this mess.

  Breaking out of jail was out of the question. The locks were too complicated for me to pick. Plus the police station was surrounded by guards and that angry mob. They’d tear me apart like a pack of dogs for a crime I didn’t commit. Greene’s strategy was twisted and evil but shrewd. By killing Mrs. Compton, he eliminated a witness and made me the most hated person in Gulfport. No one would believe a word I said. I’d sound like a desperate murderer making up a crazy excuse. My only friends outside those walls were Lucia and Prit . . . if they were still alive and hadn’t been jailed as accomplices.

  I ached all over from the beating. My suit was in tatters and covered with stiff, dried blood. My infected blood. That thought made my head spin. I leaned into the bowl and threw up over and over until I’d emptied out what little I had in my stomach. I hugged the toilet, shaking.

  Someone’ll have to disinfect all this when I go, I thought as I looked at my saliva on the toilet bowl. I didn’t feel anything yet, but I knew TSJ was rushing through my veins. In a few hours, I’d show the first signs of the virus. I wondered what it’ll be like to change into an Undead. Would I realize what was happening? My curiosity surprised me. Picturing myself becoming one of those creatures, burst veins covering my skin, was too much. I clung to the toilet shaking and gagging, but nothing else came up.

  The easiest thing would be to get it over with. Spare myself the terrible indignity of becoming a being with no control over itself.

  What’re you thinking? That’s suicide.

  So what? It’d be best way out.

  You can’t. Life means too much to you. Don’t do it.

  It’d be better than . . . that.

  You don’t know that.

  Shut up, dammit. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

  I cradled my head in my hands as I lay on the floor, moaning. I had to do something or I’d go crazy. But what? I had nothing I could use to end my suffering. When they threw me in jail, they took my watch, my shoelaces, and my belt. Those Aryans had spent too much time behind bars to overlook a single detail.

  Losing my watch hurt the most. It was an old, beaten-up Festina, but it was all I had left from my old life. Adding to my agony, I had no way to gauge time, since the light was always on in my cell.

  After a couple of hours, I felt the first muscle cramps and a tingling in both arms, like when you fall asleep with your hand pinned under your body. The pain was mild at first, but unsettling. I knew what it meant—the change had begun.

  I wiped my sweaty forehead with my shirttail. The stifling heat must be the first sign of the infection. Greene was sweating profusely before he took Cladoxpan.

  A horrible thought crossed my mind. They were going to leave me here, locked up like a rabid animal, until the infection transformed me into an Undead. Then I’d be a carnival sideshow, a monster. Dads in Gulfport would bring their kids to see me, to teach them about the monsters outside the Wall. They’d throw popcorn and rotten vegetables at me.

  I was going crazy. I furiously scratched my arm. Was that itch the next stage in my transformation, or was it just anxiety?

  Suddenly I heard a bolt pulled back on the upper floor. Footsteps started down the stairs. Like a cornered animal, I looked around for something to defend myself with, but everything was either bolted down or welded to the walls. It dawned on me that my infection could be my weapon, so I tore at the scab on my forehead. It hurt like hell, but hot blood started flowing down my face. I soaked my fingers in that blood and waited. I’d flick my infected blood on the first person who showed up. If I was going to die, I’d take someone with me.

  The footsteps came closer. I knelt down, hiding my hands behind my back, ready to pounce. Then I saw Malachi Grapes backlit by the fluorescent light.

  “Hello, lawyer.” Grapes’s voice mocked me. The evil fuck knew I was trapped. In his arms was a frightened, squirming, wild-eyed Lucullus, horrified by the defeated, bloody figure eyeing him from the other side of the bars.

  31

  I froze. That was the last thing I expected. Lucullus yowled when he recognized me and tried to get free of Grapes’s iron grip.

  “Let my cat go, asshole!” I shouted. “Drop him now or . . . !”

  “Or what? What’re you gonna do? I could break his neck while you watch—”

  “No! No, don’t do that, please!”

  “Then sit at the back of the cell. Keep your hands where I can see them. No surprises.” The bastard was one step ahead of me. He had on safety glasses in case he got splashed.

  I did as I was told and sat on the cot, looking from Grapes to Lucullus. When my little buddy heard my voice, he tried even harder to escape. The Aryan had two deep scratches on his arm. Lucullus had put up a good fight.

  “Y’know, in prison, my attorney was always on this side of the bars,” Grapes said with a wicked smile. “This is a nice change.”

  “I’m surprised you had any visitors. Even your lawyer.”

  Grapes laughed smugly. “I wish I could’ve brought your slut or that Commie dwarf to say good-bye. But they’re smarter than you. Can’t find them anywhere. The only one at home was this flea-bitten cat. Figured you’d like to see him.”

  “Don’t hurt him, please.”

  “That depends on you. Tomorrow morning, we’ll put you on the deportation train,” he said slowly, as if he were explaining something to a child. “You need to behave yourself until then. If it was up to me, I’d’ve put a couple of slugs in you by now, but the reverend has a different punishment in mind. He decided you should die alone, slowly. Give you time to think about the deep shit you’re in.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I said sourly.

  “No, you tell me. Why’d you do it? You had a fucking good life. Nice house, steady job, a chick to warm your bed, even this shitty cat. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you fucked up. You pissed me off from the start, but I never thought you’d make it so easy for me. So, why’d you do it?”

  “Because I’m not an animal like you. Because this place is immoral and sick. It’s all gonna blow up in your face one day. I don’t want to live in a place that saves my body but destroys my soul. That’s why I did it. I’m just sorry I won’t be there when the helots rise up and a couple of those guys fuck you till you can’t stand up. Considering all the time you spent in prison, you might enjoy it.”

  Grapes’s face turned bright red and I thought I’d gone too far. His hand squeezed my poor cat’s neck and he shook him like a rag doll. Lucullus struggled, weakly meowing in pain, nearly suffocating.

  “Tomorrow I’ll make sure to lock up a few helot crackheads in your train car,” he growled. “Then we’ll see who gets fucked up the ass.”

  There was nothing I could say to that. Grapes held all the cards.

  “This isn’t a courtesy call. Here. This’ll last you till morning.” The Aryan dug something out of his pocket and tossed it to me.

  I snatched it out of the air and stared at it. It was a clear plastic bottle about the size of a soda can. Inside was a white liquid.

  “It’s Cladoxpan. You’ve been infected for eight hours, so you’re showing the first symptoms. You’re sweating like a pig even though it’s freezing down here.”

  His words confirmed my worst fears. The extreme heat I’d been feeling indicated that TSJ was overwhelming my immune system.


  “What do I have to do?” I asked in a hushed voice.

  “You have two choices. Give me back that bottle and when I come for you in the morning, you’ll be just another rotten Undead. We’ll shoot you in the head, burn your body in the town dump, and that’s that. Or you can drink the Cladoxpan slowly. The longer it lasts, the longer you’ll last. You’ll eventually die in the Wasteland. You decide.” Grapes shrugged.

  “I choose to live,” I said faintly, looking at the floor. My whole life was ruined.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “I choose to live,” I said, a bit louder.

  “Thought you’d say that. But I want an additional guarantee you’ll behave yourself.” The Aryan pulled a knife out of his boot, and before I had time to blink, stretched Lucullus across his knees and pressed the knife blade against my cat’s tail.

  “No!”

  Everything happened in slow motion. Grapes’s wrist arcing upward as he sliced Lucullus’s tail in half. The knife covered in blood. Blood spurting from the stump of Lucullus’s tail. My cat’s eyes wide with pain and panic as he let out a long meow. Grapes’s sadistic, satisfied expression.

  My knuckles were white as chalk as I shook the bar. “You fucking son of a bitch! I’ll kill you! Hear me? I swear I’ll kill you, you asshole!”

  “Tell that to someone else.” Grapes calmly stood up and put the knife back in his boot. “Don’t worry about your cat. One of the guys’ll bandage what’s left of his tail.” His tone became menacing. “Control yourself till tomorrow if you don’t want me betting with pieces of Persian cat at our poker game tonight. Got it?”

  Lucullus’s blood dripped onto the dirty tile floor, leaving huge, flower-shaped drops. I couldn’t look away from those spots. I’d never hated anyone so much.

  “I’ll leave you alone to think. Have a good night.”

  That evil fuck Grapes walked down the corridor, a steel grip on Lucullus, whistling as my cat’s cries of pain got weaker and weaker.