The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z)

by Manel Loureiro

  And then I was alone, the bottle of Cladoxpan in one hand and the piece of Lucullus’s tail in the other. My heart was racing, but I couldn’t cry. All I wanted was revenge.

  32

  BLUEFONT

  THE DAY AFTER THE RAID

  The first two hours of the morning were hectic. Mendoza set up headquarters at the Red Rooster and sent messages to the four corners of the ghetto via wily young kids. With fast legs and a hungry look in their eye, they slipped past the militia and the Green Guards. The kids memorized the messages so that if they were caught, they wouldn’t be carrying any evidence.

  Lucia and Prit crouched in a corner and watched. Alejandra found a first-aid kit and gently tended the Ukrainian’s cuts and bruises. He’d recovered pretty well except for his broken ribs, but the former soldier could tolerate that. As he wolfed down a stew of mystery meat, his gaze flitted around that crowd, trying to decipher the group’s plans.

  “What’s going on, Prit?” Lucia murmured uneasily.

  “Not sure. But it has all the signs of an uprising.”

  “An uprising?” Lucia shrieked in alarm. “When?”

  “In a few hours, I think,” Prit said. “My guess, they’ve been planning it for a while. Today’s raid just moved up their plans.”

  The Ukrainian was right. The plan had been brewing for months. The majority of the helots were far from defeated by the reverend’s tactics. Greene and his men always kept in mind the possibility of an uprising—and feared it. At least four times, the helots had been about to revolt but had called it off at the last minute. Greene always got wind of their plans through a network of snitches that he’d bribed or blackmailed to work for him. Mendoza suspected that the Green Guards bugged the houses during raids. Mendoza and his men had checked every inch of the Red Rooster, but still he knew there was a chance the Aryans were on to his plans.

  The morning’s unforeseen raid had derailed all their planning. They had to act. Now.

  Forty minutes later, thirty men and women crowded into the bar, trying to make themselves heard over the growing din. They all told an unsettling story. The Greens had taken over six hundred people from the ghetto.

  “This raid was the worst yet!” roared a tall, leathery Latino. “They didn’t just take the weak! They took adult men and women!”

  “It was random,” complained another. “They even took those with proper ID.”

  “When did ID ever stop them?” a voice in the back replied bitterly. “They’re exterminating us little by little, like in those fucking Nazi ghettos.”

  “But we had a deal!” the first guy replied stubbornly. “We just needed to have ID!”

  “You’re a real idiot if you believe that bullshit. And a fucking sellout. You busted your balls to get that worthless piece of paper. Stop your whining.”

  “Who you calling a sellout, you son of a bitch?” The man reached for his knife.

  Everyone was shouting at once, so Mendoza got up on the table and yelled himself hoarse, trying in vain to get control of the crowd. Finally, he picked up a broken computer and tossed it through the building’s last window. When the crowd heard the breaking glass, they stopped midsentence and looked up at Mendoza, whose eyes were shooting sparks.

  “You’re a bunch of idiots! We don’t have to wait for Greene’s men to kill us. We can do it ourselves. Now shut up and listen if you want to keep living.”

  The crowd whispered and coughed. The two guys shot angry looks at each other. Clearly, their argument wasn’t over, but everyone obeyed Gato Mendoza.

  Mendoza cleared his throat. “The moment we feared—and hoped for—has come. The raids are getting worse. The Green Guards treat us like sacrificial lambs. We can’t put up with this any longer. We have to act now.”

  “I don’t think that’s the wisest course of action.” Out of the crowd stepped an old black man wearing a moth-eaten tweed jacket and thick glasses. Before the pandemic, he’d been a respected professor of philosophy at a university in the Midwest; he was used to being heard and respected. “Violence only begets violence. Chaos leads to chaos. Only with harmony and understanding can we find long-term solutions. I’m sure if we take this matter up with the reverend and explain the situation, he’ll punish the guilty and make sure this doesn’t happen again. Or we can apply passive resistance, Gandhi-style. But armed resistance won’t solve the problem.”

  There was a flurry of reactions for and against. Everyone talked at once.

  Mendoza quieted everyone down and continued. “Professor Bansted, you’re one of the most levelheaded people in the ghetto, but this isn’t that college where you taught. This isn’t a student demonstration demanding better food in the cafeteria. It’s not even the same fucking world. We’re talking about saving our lives.”

  “Our lives are valuable to the people on the other side of the Wall,” Bansted said, undeterred. “They need us to forage food, fuel, clothing, and medicine. They can’t survive without us!” The ancient professor crossed his arms.

  A murmur of approval followed the old man’s words.

  “That’s only half true, Professor,” Mendoza said. “First of all, not everyone in the ghetto goes out on reconnaissance. Children, the sick and the elderly—like you—are expendable in Greene’s eyes.” Bansted flinched. “Have you ever gone on a raid outside the walls? No. To them, you’re one more useless mouth to feed, like a lot of us. At any one time, Gulfport only needs about five hundred of us for the raids. A couple of thousand would be plenty. And more manageable.”

  More arguments broke out.

  “That’s just your opinion,” Bansted answered, stubbornly. “I lived through race riots in the sixties. If we’d taken up arms back then, the consequences would’ve been dire.”

  “In those race riots, did they take hundreds of black people on a train somewhere and they never came back ever?” Mendoza asked bitterly.

  The old professor paused, looked down, and then answered with a nearly inaudible “No.”

  “We’re being exterminated, like the Jews during the Holocaust. That’s a fact, whether you like it or not.” There was dead silence. “We can do one of two things: go meekly to the slaughter or stand up and fight for our lives. The worst that can happen is we get killed. Either way, we’ll die.”

  Many people nodded gloomily as their doubts evaporated.

  “The Hour of the Just has come!” Mendoza thundered. “It’s time for justice and freedom to triumph over tyranny and oppression! It’s time to take control of our lives! It’s now or never, friends. Grab your weapons and let’s take the damn wall! Let’s burn Gulfport down! Let’s teach those fat, lazy white people a lesson they’ll never forget! Let’s fight for our freedom! Together!”

  The people cheered and raised their fists in a wild, mad fever. Even the college professor was swept up in the excitement. Some jabbed the air with their knives, picturing the Green Guards they’d kill.

  Over the cheers, a slow, mocking applause rang out. Every head turned toward the sound and fell silent. Standing next to the wall, Viktor Pritchenko clapped and smiled bitterly.

  “Bravo!” he said, his voice dripping with irony, as he kept clapping. “That was one helluva speech. You surprised me. I didn’t think a two-bit thug like you had what it takes to lead a revolt. If you hadn’t nearly killed me a few hours ago, I’d even respect you. I’m impressed.”

  “Got something to say, güero?” Mendoza replied, visibly upset.

  “A couple of things.” Prit climbed up on the table with Mendoza. “First, you’re one hundred percent correct. Those racist pigs on the other side of the Wall want to kill you. And they’ll do it too. Second, your little revolution is doomed before it begins.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” a woman demanded in a thick Southern accent. “We outnumber ’em, and we’re not afraid to die.”

  “Actually, you don’t outnumber th
em,” the Ukrainian replied slowly. “There’s a lot more people on the other side of the Wall. They’re better fed, healthier, and, above all, better armed. Are you gonna attack the Green Guards and the militia with knives?”

  “We’ve got guns.” Mendoza stuck out his chin, challenging Prit. “And there’re only about three hundred militiamen and Green Guards.”

  “True,” said Prit, “but I’ll bet Greene could arm a couple thousand men the minute you attack. I was on the other side. I know what I’m talking about.”

  An uncomfortable murmur spread through the room as the Ukrainian continued. “What weapons do you have? The Green Guards take your guns after a raid, right?”

  “We’ve stolen some weapons,” said the tall Latino. “We find guns out on raids and sneak them back in the ghetto hidden among the supplies. I got a list.” He handed Prit a few handwritten pages.

  Pritchenko flipped through the papers and let out a sarcastic laugh. “Just what I thought. You have a couple dozen assault rifles, some hunting rifles, even some antiques.” He stopped at one of the lines on the paper and looked in disbelief. “A tommy gun? Really? That’s what gangsters used back in the Roaring Twenties. Where the hell’d you get that? I gotta see it.”

  “They kill, same as modern guns.” The man stood his ground.

  “They don’t kill the same. Take my word for it.” He handed back the list, shaking his head. “On top of that, you don’t have enough ammunition for this hodgepodge. Ten minutes into the battle, you’ll be out.” He smiled wryly. “You gonna spit on them? Throw rocks? Very few of you have military training, including your leaders.” He turned to Mendoza, who was red with anger. “No offense, Gato.”

  “We have the element of surprise,” Mendoza muttered angrily, ignoring Pritchenko’s taunts. “And we can seize ammunition from the Greens we kill.”

  “Helluva plan,” Prit replied. “Now tell me how you plan to attack that concrete wall and the machine guns in those towers. You’re forgetting one important thing: Greene has control of the Cladoxpan. If your plan doesn’t work, he’ll cut off your supply and, in a couple of days, you’ll all turn into Undead. Truth is, he’s got you by the balls.”

  “Not quite,” said a deep voice from the back of the room in very proper English.

  Viktor Pritchenko stared, speechless, as Gunnar Strangärd walked through the crowd, waterlogged and frowning.

  33

  Cowards die many times before their deaths.

  The valiant never taste of death but once.

  —William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

  “What the hell . . . ?” the Ukrainian stammered. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” said the Swede and nodded politely to Lucia. “I’m glad to see you’re in one piece, my friend.”

  “Not exactly in one piece,” Prit growled, pointing to his black eye and broken nose.

  “A lot of people are worse off, believe me.” The Swede made his way through the crowd, waving to friends. He was clearly a familiar presence.

  “Hello, Gunnar.” Alejandra planted a kiss on his cheek. “How’re you?”

  “Hello, Ale. I’m glad to see you.” Strangärd sounded relieved. “What a nightmare!”

  “Tell me about it,” the woman replied. “What’s happening on the other side of the Wall?”

  “They’re getting ready to ship them off. We don’t have much time.” The Swede turned to Lucia and Prit with a grim look on his face. “I’m afraid I have very bad news. They’ve got your friend.”

  Lucia froze. The blood drained from her face and her voice shook. “What do you mean they’ve got him?”

  “They threw him in jail. They claim he killed someone when he was trying to steal some Cladoxpan. He’ll be on the train that leaves in two hours, along with everyone they arrested in the raid.”

  Lucia turned to Prit in panic. “We gotta get him out of there!”

  “That’s not possible.” Strangärd shook his head. “The train is heavily guarded and the crowd at the station wants to lynch him. There’s a price on your heads too. If you show up, they’ll shoot you, no questions asked.”

  Prit looked like he’d been gut-punched. Lucia slumped against a wall and slid to the floor, nearly choking on her tears.

  They’re going to kill him. First the slaughter in the ghetto and now him. Oh, God, it’s all my fault. How could I have been so stupid?

  Alejandra put her arm around Lucia’s shoulders and tried to comfort her, but she couldn’t stop sobbing.

  “Whadda we do now?” Alejandra cast a lost look around the room.

  Mendoza was red-faced with anger. “It’s time, Gunnar,” he said, quietly. “We need the help of the Just.”

  “You’ll have our help; don’t worry,” Strangärd replied calmly. “We’ll get the stash when I get back to the other side.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Prit, shaking off his gloom. “What’re you talking about? What stash? Who’re the Just?”

  “Not everyone on the other side backs Greene,” Strangärd replied. “There aren’t many of us, but we see how corrupt Gulfport is. We’ve organized an underground movement. If Greene found out, we’d be on that train.”

  “The Just have helped us from the start,” Alejandra added. “They’ve let us know about changes in documents and given us fake IDs, medicine, food, and even weapons. We built that submerged bridge with their help.”

  “We have to be very cautious,” Strangärd said. “Greene has eyes and ears everywhere. The minute I saw you three, I knew you weren’t like those people. I wanted to explain the situation to you on the ship, but I never got the chance. Captain Birley and his crew kept a close eye on you.”

  “How many of you are there?” Prit asked.

  “I can’t say for sure. We’re organized in independent cells. If they capture one, the rest of the organization isn’t affected. But we have people in most sectors.”

  “The uprising doesn’t sound so ridiculous now, does it?” Mendoza broke in.

  “It still sounds ridiculous . . . and suicidal,” Prit replied. “But there’s no other option.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Strangärd said. “We’ve heard rumors of a huge raid on the ghetto in a couple of weeks. Only two thousand helots will be left alive. We have to act now.”

  “The Cladoxpan . . .” Pritchenko said.

  “That’s no problem,” said the Swede. “We’ve hidden nearly four thousand liters of Cladoxpan in a secret warehouse. Our people in the lab have risked their lives to stockpile it little by little. Greene will cut your supply, but you’ll be able to survive for a few days. Long enough for the uprising to succeed, God willing.”

  “What if it fails?” asked the old professor. “And what happens when that Cladoxpan runs out?”

  “If the uprising fails, that’ll be the least of our problems. We’ll all be dead,” Mendoza said coolly. “How do you plan to get it to us, Gunnar?”

  “Getting it past the Wall is impossible. There’s too much to transport at one time. Making several trips would take too long and would be too risky.”

  Mendoza blurted out, “What if you left it someplace where we could pick it up later?”

  “Good idea,” Strangärd said. “But where?”

  Silence filled the room. They’d reached a dead end.

  “Outside,” said Pritchenko, suddenly. “On the other side of the Wall.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Strangärd smiled for the first time. “We could disguise the drums as garbage bins . . .”

  “Our people can pick them up when they take the trash to the dump.” Mendoza finished the Swede’s sentence. “We’ll hide those drums on the garbage trucks. The Greens never search them.”

  “Perfect.” Strangärd turned to Pritchenko and smiled. “Brilliant idea, my friend.”

  “I ha
ve my moments,” Prit replied uncomfortably. “When can we start?”

  “The next trash dump is a week from now,” said the Swede. “That’ll give us time to transport the drums of Cladoxpan to the dump.”

  “A week?” Prit stirred uneasily. “That’s too long! You just said the deportation train leaves in two hours!”

  “We can’t do a thing for those people.” Strangärd shook his head. “But we can save the lives of those still here.”

  “You heard him!” Mendoza shouted to the crowd. “We’ve got seven days. Get your groups together, round up your weapons, and wait for my signal. In a week, the Wrath of the Just will fall on those sons of bitches in Gulfport!”

  A cheer filled the room. Everyone felt strangely calm, as if they’d crossed a bridge and burned it behind them. Everything was riding on this one plan now, but at least fear wasn’t eating away at them.

  As people filed out of the room, someone grabbed Strangärd’s arm. He turned to see Lucia’s tear-ravaged face.

  “Please,” she sobbed, “please, you’ve got to help him. I love him more than anything in the world. If he dies, nothing matters to me. Nothing! Help me, please!”

  Strangärd studied her for a moment. “I can’t do anything for him. I can’t get him out of jail or off that train. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Listen to me.” Lucia squared her shoulders, gathering every ounce of energy she had left, trying to control the tremor in her voice. “I know what I’m asking is really hard, but the man I love is on that train. If you can’t help me, I’ll cross that damn bridge, walk to that station, and get on the train with him. If he dies, I’ll die with him. If he lives . . .”

  Strangärd swallowed hard. What the girl was asking was far too risky, but the gleam in her eyes told him she was serious.

  “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once,’” the Swede recited quietly, staring off into space.

  “What does that mean?” Lucia asked weakly.

  “It means I’ll help you,” Strangärd sighed. “I’ll help your man.”